


Seven Eclipse

by Talonticus



Series: Tale of the Nerevarine [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Adventure, Dialogue Heavy, Drama, F/F, Gen, Humor, Romance, Seven Trials, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-19 19:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 161,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talonticus/pseuds/Talonticus
Summary: Life has a funny way of betraying you.When she received the offer to become a spy for the Emperor, Jollain assumed the worst. She figured it would be nothing more than empty promises or a way for the imperials to ridicule her, to utilize a prisoner for their own callous means. Eventually, she had come to realize this presumption wasn't entirely correct.A future existed in Vvardenfell, one that might be much brighter than anything the Imperial City ever held for her. Or so she thought.As the moons drift across the sky, followed by stars in their wake, the fate of twilight continues to move towards the inevitable clash. The false gods' reign shall end in delayed vengeance.





	1. Dusk in flames

**Author's Note:**

> **Main characters:** Jollain (Female Bosmer Nerevarine), Tayerise (Female Dunmer OC), Maak-Veh (Male Argonian OC), Vaziri (Female Khajiit OC)  
>  **Secondary characters:** Caius Cosades, Dagoth Ur, Legate Asta Svalen (Female Nord OC)  
>  **Minor characters:** ...let's just say "a lot".
> 
> _Hi there! Claire Talon or Talonticus again, with the second Morrowind fic about the Nerevarine._
> 
> _So, ready to fuck Jollain's entire world up? Eventually, anyway._   
>  _This story is longer than the last one. I think the reasons should be obvious too, as this is my version of the main story in the game. If you have read "As the moon rises", I think you might recognize the style._   
>  _The characters will mostly be the same, except Vaziri is going to join as one of the main characters. The "secondary characters" in the above list are important and recurring. There are also a bunch of minor ones, those who appear less, but still have their part to play._
> 
> _If you like pictures and profiles, I've got one for Jollain and Tayerise on[one of my blogs](https://creativebankruptcies.blogspot.com/2018/12/the-elder-scrolls-characters.html). I'll hopefully acquire ones for Maak-Veh and Vaziri in the future too._
> 
> _Anyway, I hope you enjoy it._

_Third era, year 427. A few months after the death of King Athyn Llethan._

The watery expanse outside of the Telvanni settlement known as Tel Branora lies still on this night, or early morning depending on how one prefers to view the cycles. Only a gentle breeze blows through the air, and while the moons are occasionally visible in the sky, the clouds above manage to cover most of them. Very few animals ever visit this island, except for the netch that float at the outskirts. Their humming and huffing noises can be heard by those who choose to approach the docks or traverse the edge of town.

In the middle of all this darkness and serenity, still out in the sea, an unknown ship sails towards the small dock. It’s rare that this settlement receives visitors, but those who control the ship do not really have any interest in conducting trade or renting rooms in the inn. Their purpose is far more dubious.  
The vessel has been traversing the Inner Sea, through a path straight from Bal Foyen on the mainland. Sailing in the dark isn’t always easy, nor advantageous, except if one wishes to avoid attention. This is exactly why this crew planned the trip at this time, to remain unseen by Legion and Great House scouts.

While most of the crew stays silent and focuses on their various tasks, to correct the sails, steer the ship, prepare their weapons or organize the cargo, the door from the Captain’s cabin suddenly opens up and a big nord walks out from it. He’s particularly large and tall, with long blonde hair and a thick beard in the same color, pale skin and a sturdy build. He’s currently dressed in a combination of iron and leather armor, potentially getting prepared for battle.

Close behind him walks a smaller and somewhat younger woman; another human, but a redguard. Her skin is dark brown, with hair shaped into braids, which reach her shoulders. Compared to him, she still only walks around in a red shirt and beige pants, and while he has a large axe on his back, she keeps a bow over her shoulder and a short sword at her belt.  
At this time, there’s worry in her eyes, as she gazes at him with uncertainty. In response, the nord appears severely agitated.

“I don’t want to hear it anymore”, he tells her, his voice kept in a moderately quiet volume. They don’t want to attract attention. “This conversation is over.”

“That isn’t fair, Valdhir. I just wanna ask some questions.”

He furrows his brow and shakes his head.  
“No, you aren’t just asking, you’re trying to imply that this is wrong.”

She diverts her eyes and raises her arms in a half shrug.  
“Was that what I said? Because I don’t remember using those words.  
I just-…is this really necessary? Do we really have to do this? There has to be another way.”

Valdhir suddenly stops and turns on his heel rather sharply. It’s done with such speed that she flinches somewhat, especially with the glare he offers her.  
“What exactly is your problem with this plan?”

The redguard swallows and clears her throat, but she tries her best to look at him again. She’s not afraid of him per se, but definitely his temper. Perhaps that’s partially why she needs to question their actions.  
“Well, I-…have you checked how much explosives we have below decks? This won’t be pretty, you know.”

“Of course it won’t be, and that’s the fucking point. How much do you think one needs to blow up a Legion fortress?”

She hesitates, biting at her lower lip for a moment.  
“But…is it the right thing to do? It’s just so drastic that I…I dunno.”

Valdhir’s scowl deepens and he leans his head a bit closer to her.  
“You know what you got yourself into, kid. Are you saying that you don’t want to be part of this anymore? Because if you don’t, I can drop you off this ship right now.”

She looks a bit surprised, widens her eyes and takes a step back. She raises her hands defensively as she responds.  
“I…no. I wasn’t trying to-…look, all I want to do is talk about it. Is that too much to ask? Maybe we can finish this task in another way, without having to…you know, kill so many people.”

“ _No!”_ His shout echoes over the area, drawing curious gazes from several others around the deck. They’re supposed to be quiet, but Valdhir’s temper might get them in trouble. He quickly tries to adjust and lower his voice again.  
“We came here to fight the Legion and the Empire, and that’s what we’re doing. Maybe they don’t teach you what is required during this struggle in Hammerfell, but sometimes, harsher methods must be used.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! We-“

“If you want to be a coward, then that’s fine, but I’m not letting you go until this mission is over. If you don’t wish to be dropped in the sea, then you are free to remain in the brig until we’re done.”

This isn’t the first time he has threatened someone in this crew, but few dares to oppose him. She doesn’t know if she has the guts to go all out either.  
“Listen, you don’t need to talk like that to me. I’m with this cause as much as you are and-“

“I sincerely doubt that.”

She exhales through her nose, getting a bit annoyed that he constantly interrupts her.  
“All I want is to discuss and improve our plan. Isn’t that why we’re out here? To try to make things better?”

Valdhir stares at her for a few more moments, before he straightens his back and waves at her dismissively.  
“Go, now, unless you want me to get angry. I’m in charge of this mission and the plan is already decided. I’m not changing it for anyone, especially not some whiny child.”

She glares at him and opens her mouth, but he has already begun to walk away, no longer listening to her. It infuriates her that he can simply stomp all over her like this, but even if she struggles, that won’t help; no one here is ready to stand up to him. Valdhir is the leader of this assignment and he’s so stuck in his ways, while being far too aggressive to oppose. It’s both annoying and exhausting. Sadly, she doesn’t have enough say in the organization, nor in this crew, to do much about it.

Eventually, she sighs and shakes her head, walks away from this location and instead positions herself at the port side of the deck, leaning against the railing not too far from where a small rowboat is tied against the hull. She puts her hands at the top and peers out across the body of water. A part of her wishes she was far away from here now, back home. She misses it.  
While she does, she suddenly hears another voice speaking to her.  
“Hey, Ferhani. You okay?”

The redguard blinks and glances over her shoulder, seeing how a bosmer approaches her. She has long copper-colored hair tied into a ponytail, brown eyes and light brown skin. Her pointed ears are just slightly visible underneath the strands, but the scars resembling claw marks over her left cheek are far easier to see. She walks around in pretty tight leather gear, which reveals her fairly curvy build.  
“Jollain. I…” She pauses, giving herself a moment to sigh. “Sorry, I was just-…I dunno.”

Jollain smiles and comes up to join her. She bumps her shoulder in a friendly manner into Ferhani’s side. She’s quite a bit shorter than the redguard.  
“Getting in the boss man’s face again?”

Another tired exhaling motion leaves Ferhani’s mouth, which there have been far too many of today. She shuts her eyes and runs her hands over her face.  
“I can’t help it.”

“A real troublemaker, huh? Think that’s why I like you, kid.”

There’s an annoyed twitch of Ferhani’s brow as she gazes at Jollain, while she snorts.  
“Can you stop calling me that? You look no older than me.”

Jollain smile and places her hands at her hips.  
“I know. Elf, remember?”

“Yeah, but...ugh, whatever.”  
Ferhani gets the distinct sense that Jollain is merely messing with her, but who can say for sure?

As her eyes drift back to the sea, Jollain’s own expression gets a more solemn look to it and she puts her arm against the railing, while leaning somewhat into Ferhani.  
“What’s wrong?”, she asks quietly.

Ferhani slowly shakes her head.  
“I know you haven’t been with us for more than a few weeks, but it’s just that…”

She knows that she could use someone to speak with, to explain her worries, but it’s hard to know who she can trust. If she can’t confide in someone, she might get kicked out of this organization and she’ll never have a chance to change things.  
While she hesitates, Jollain uses a gentler tone.  
“You know you can always talk to me, right? We’re both in this for the same reasons.”

“I’m not sure we are. I didn’t join the Dusk for this type of shit.”

Jollain tilts her head curiously and folds her arms.  
“When and where did you join?”

Ferhani glances sideways at the elf.  
“A year ago, in my home island – Stros M’kai.  
I ran into some recruiters in one of the bars and found myself inspired. I started believing in the cause, in the mission of equality and progress within the Empire. There needs to be evolution and change, but the Emperor isn’t doing enough to make it happen. That’s why I signed up.  
But this?”, she says and gestures not just at the ship, but perhaps Vvardenfell as well. “Attacking imperial outposts and blowing up Legion forts? It’s not what the recruiters told me about and it’s not why I joined.”

“Hmm. Don’t like violence?”

Ferhani displays a small frown, as she tries to look at Jollain as seriously as possible.  
“I have no problems with violence, if it’s used for the right reasons. When it’s senseless and just there to create chaos, that shit doesn’t fly with me.”

Jollain stays silent for a few seconds and seemingly considers this approach. It’s somewhat interesting how she views Ferhani with a mysterious look, before she eventually nods.  
“I agree.”

The redguard arches her brow skeptically.  
“You do?”

“Yeah. I believe in the cause and all that, but this isn’t change, it’s just a way to create more havoc. That’s not what we want.”

Ferhani is somewhat startled at first. She hadn’t dared to bring it up to anyone, afraid of what others might say, but here is someone who claims she’s on the same side.  
“Yes, exactly!”, she says while putting a hand on the bosmer’s shoulder. “Finally, someone who gets it. I dunno if you’ve been thinking about this as I have, but if you wanna talk about it later, we should wait until we’re alone.”

Jollain ponders this proposal, and Ferhani briefly wonders if she said something wrong.  
Eventually, the bosmer puts a hand on her arm and looks intently into her eyes.  
“When we get to land, stick close to me, alright?”

Okay, that’s not quite what she had expected. Ferhani’s eyes dart around searchingly, but doesn’t find any answers in Jollain’s gaze.  
“Expecting trouble?”

Jollain hopes to diffuse the situation with a smile.  
“Just in case, I mean. You never know”, she says with an added wink. Jollain can be kinda weird, but Ferhani somehow senses there’s more to it.

Once the ship reaches the docks on the coast, everything has gone rather smoothly so far. There are no signs of movements in the town and no patrol ships have spotted them on the sea. The approach has been almost perfect.  
Despite this aspect, or perhaps because of it, Valdhir begins to look worried.  
“Hmm. Something isn’t right”, he tells the others in his crew.

Another human, a breton, stops on his side and watches him questioningly.  
“Oh? You think we should postpone docking here?”

Valdhir runs a hand up to his beard and contemplates the angle. Realizing that it may just be his nerves, he shakes his head.  
“Nah, it’s nothing. Keep going; we’ve got a job to do.”

Everything proceeds accordingly and Valdhir is slowly beginning to calm his nerves, when a few of his people heads onto the docks in order to inspect the area.  
He’s about to order some of the crew to start unloading their cargo, but stops as he spots movement in the darkness. A whole group of armed and armored individuals begin rushing out from hidden locations on the port, ambushes the rebels and attempts to arrest them.  
“What the-…what’s going on here?!”, Valdhir yells.

A particularly sizable member of this group soon approaches the ramp to the ship. She’s large and tall like a nord with short black hair, but her skin is a medium brown, which means she may be of a slight redguard descent too. She pulls out a sword from her belt and as she comes closer, the heavy armor she wears - adorned with dragon symbols - is very familiar.  
“…the Legion!”, someone exclaims in surprise.

The nord officer frowns and shouts to the boat, with an impressive strength.  
“Crew of the Tenth Dusk-aligned ship, this is Legate Asta Svalen of the Thirteenth Imperial Legion! Disembark from your vessel and surrender now! You will not be harmed.”

The crew is shocked when they see how many Legion soldiers appear behind her, as if an entire company has been gathered.  
“How…in Oblivion did they know?”, someone asks. “This dock was supposed to be empty!”

Valdhir grits his teeth and clenches his fists.  
“We’ve been betrayed! Quick, raise the ramp and get this ship sailing again!”

Asta frowns at him, currently standing very close to the ramp, but not quite there yet.  
“There’s no use running, Valdhir! We already have ships in the sea. You are surrounded, and we will not hesitate to seize your vessel with any means necessary.”

“Screw you, imperial lapdog!”

The Legate sighs and shakes her head, as if she expected this outcome.  
“Legionnaires, board the ship!”

“Hold them off! Don’t let those bastards get on board! Helmsman, get us out of here! Someone start rowing and-“

His yelling is interrupted by another crew member.  
“Captain! Someone is pulling down the anchor!”

Valdhir and a lot of the others immediately turn towards this object, where they can spot an argonian with dark red scales and green highlights, who is attempting to achieve exactly this goal.  
Ferhani is still standing next to Jollain and she appears rather shocked at the sight.  
“Hold on, isn’t that…Maak-Veh? What’s he doing?”

Jollain doesn’t respond.  
Valdhir glares at Maak.  
“Stop that scaly traitor! Kill him and toss him off the ship before he succeeds, or we’re screwed!”

A trio of rebels attempt to assault Maak’s position, but before they get there, a tall grey-skinned dunmer woman, with long black hair shaved on both flanks of her head, tackles them from the side. She disarms one, kicks another and headbutts the third.  
“Shit!”, Ferhani exclaims. “Tayerise too?! What’s going on here?”

As this occurs, Valdhir unfortunately cannot help them, as his attention is forced towards the ramp. The defenders at this position are being overwhelmed by the superior skill and strength of the Legion soldiers. He has to help them push the Legion off. During this process, the anchor drops into the sea, stranding the ship in this location for now. Not like they would’ve gotten very far anyhow, but now it definitely looks like they won’t get a chance to escape.

Ferhani remains in her position, hesitating about how she should act here. She doesn’t really want to get involved in the fight, as she doesn’t wish to help someone like Valdhir anymore. At the same time, though, if she simply waits around, what will happen then? Will they really distinguish between a rebel that struggles and one who does not? And even if they don’t kill her, what will arrest be like? What if they leave her to rot in some Legion dungeon?

Off to the side, one of the rebel archers lifts up a bow and is just about to fire on Tayerise’s position, but the arrow never leaves their hand. A bolt of lightning strikes them square in the chest with such ferocity that they drop to the ground.  
Ferhani widens her eyes in surprise and follows the lightning to its source. It erupted from none other than the bosmer.

“…Jollain? You’re…with them?”

A few stray sparks of lightning linger in Jollain’s hand, which she tries to shake off, but any concealment attempt is futile. She turns her head towards Ferhani and clearly falters regarding her response. Both guilt and uncertainty shimmers through her eyes.  
“It’s…not quite what you think.”

Ferhani frowns at her.  
“Oh yeah? You’re saying that you’re not with the Legion?”

“Not quite, no. But this isn’t about that.”

The redguard takes a step back, moving even closer to a nearby corner. She’s still by the railing, as she doesn’t really have anywhere else to go.  
“Yes, it is! You’re betraying us!”

Jollain shrugs.  
“You said it yourself, didn’t you? This isn’t what you’re meant to do.”

“I-…I wasn’t-…I didn’t say that the Legion is the better side in all this! They’re part of the fucking problem, Jollain!”

At the ramp of the vessel, angry grunts and clashing weapons can be heard, which attracts the focus from a lot of people. In that location, Valdhir’s axe collides with Asta’s sword and shield, as the two duel each other on the deck, leader against leader. The imperial soldiers are still combating the rebels, but this particular fight still receives a lot of attention, as it could potentially determine the end of this struggle.

Ferhani is finally starting to appear rather scared and in an act of desperation, she puts a hand on the hilt of her short sword, unsheathes it and then aims it at Jollain. The bosmer is still a few meters away, so she can’t just start swinging, but she also doesn’t advance. She doesn’t dare to.  
Jollain tries to hold up her hands to calm the other woman.  
“You don’t want to do this, Ferhani.”

“You don’t know what the fuck I want! I don’t even know who you really are!”

“Look, all I want is what’s best for all the people of the Empire, just like you do. I don’t think everything the Emperor and the Legion does is great, so we’re on the same page there. The thing is, I don’t believe that the Tenth Dusk is the solution, not like it operates right now. You know you agree.”

Ferhani is still frowning, but the hesitation returns, knowing that Jollain has a point.  
“…yeah, okay, fine, maybe I do. But so what? If I stay here, they’ll arrest me. I can’t let that happen.”

“It’s not like that. They’ll take care of you.”

“Yeah, by locking me up in a goddamn cell!”

Ferhani takes the opportunity to look around the deck, surveying the situation and seeing how poorly it goes. Maak-Veh and Tayerise have joined the soldiers in defeating and arresting the rebels, and they’re surprisingly good at it too. They use such skill that she hasn’t witnessed up until this point. Legion agents that hid their true potential during this entire trip, most likely.

While the majority are taken alive, the only one who truly refuses to stand down is Valdhir. Every attempt to reach out by Asta is slapped away by the other nord, who continues to fight, despite his injuries. It is like he is fueled by fury and it drains all other aspects. Unfortunately, his experience and training are inferior to those of the Legate.  
He refuses to go down without a fight and eventually, Asta gets tired of his bloodthirsty methods. She is forced to cut him down and drop him to the floor in a pile of his own blood.

Asta pants after the battle is done and observes his body with disappointed eyes.  
“Damn stubborn bastard. At least he fell in battle, so I guess he has earned his place in Sovngarde”, she mutters.

Ferhani looks distraught by this end. She may not have liked Valdhir, but if he fell, then there’s no chance that she will make it out of here.  
She is starting to panic somewhat and feels how her heart is beating faster. She doesn’t want her journey to end here, after how much she has struggled since joining this group. She tried so hard and her reward is to get tossed into a fucking cell on Vvardenfell of all places? This isn’t right.

At the same time, Jollain is also surveying the same situation, seeing how Valdhir falls and how the rebels overall are slowly losing. She should’ve known that Asta would never be defeated by someone like that brute.  
Eventually, she turns her attention back to her own dilemma with Ferhani. With the type of skills she has built during the last year or more, she can easily disarm this young woman and bring her in. It’s only a matter of acting quickly. Would that really be the right thing to do, though?

Letting her own compassion and impulsiveness take over, Jollain groans in annoyance and suddenly approaches the railing. On the hull of the ship hangs one of the smaller extra rowboats, meant for minor transports or rescues. It’s tied to the side and Jollain pulls out a short sword to cut off the ropes which it hangs from. After it drops down, she gestures with her hand at the water, while looking at Ferhani.  
“Get in.”

Ferhani stops her panicking thoughts momentarily and stares at Jollain.  
“…what?”

“Get in the boat and row out of here.”

The redguard’s eyes move searchingly, trying to quickly ponder the angles. Is some deception involved here?  
“…are you serious?”

“Does it sound like I’m joking?”

Ferhani bites at her lower lip and then leans over the railing, to check the boat. It’s not big, nor fast, but operational.  
“I won’t get very far with this.”

“Yeah, I know, but let me deal with that. I’ll make up some excuse, say that you aren’t important. Trust me, they’ll listen to what I have to offer.”

Ferhani frowns and stares skeptically at the bosmer.  
“Not sure I can trust anything you have to say.”

Jollain snorts and shrugs nonchalantly.  
“Heh, that’s fair. I wouldn’t do either, but this is all you’ve got. What’s it gonna be?”

After giving the deck of the ship one last look and seeing what her options are, Ferhani holsters her weapon.  
“Fuck it”, she says and leaps off the ship, landing in the small craft. She quickly gets into position by the oars and shares one last look with Jollain before she gets going.  
“I don’t really know who you are, but…thanks.”

Jollain smiles and inclines her head.  
“No problem. If you actually manage to get out of here – good luck. Hope you find what you seek.”

As the young redguard disappears into the darkness and the battle finally ends, Asta approaches Jollain’s position. She seems somewhat exhausted, with sweat all over her face and she’s wiping blood off her sword. In the distance, she sees how the boat is getting further and further away.  
She views the shorter woman at her side with doubt.  
“Don’t tell me you let her escape.”

Jollain is still leaning against the railing when she offers a disarming smile for the Legate.  
“She’s just a kid, mom, and she didn’t wanna do this. Let her go.”

Asta watches Jollain for a few more seconds, before she snorts.  
“Fine, I’ll give you this one, but that’s it. Now debrief me about this situation and the cargo, so we can finish this mission.”

“If you say so!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah, wanted to get a chance to show what Jollain has been doing lately, and what stuff she gets involved in. Hopefully helps to reveal the general situation around the Empire too. Not everything is stable, even outside of Morrowind._   
>  _Just a fun detail: Ferhani is actually my version of the Champion of Cyrodiil/Hero of Kvatch. I will probably write a fic with her at some point._


	2. Hand of immortal

_The first thing she notes upon regaining her senses is the heat. It is dry and warm in here, to an incredible degree, more so than she has ever experienced elsewhere. One might even describe it as oppressive, overwhelming in an almost unnatural sense. It hits her and anyone else within the same area from every angle, trying to shatter them for unknown purposes. Fighting it seems almost impossible, as there is nothing available to cool down with._

_Once she finally manages to open her eyes, she realizes that she does not recognize this area. Sure, it’s dark, so her vision is obviously somewhat diminished, but it’s not impossible to see. She gets a rather unsettling sensation in her chest when she glances around, as if there’s some kind of eerie aura that surrounds this entire section._  
_She’s standing in some type of corridor, made of stone. It is blatantly not a natural formation, but she cannot tell by whose hands it was constructed._

 _If she raises her eyes, she can see all kinds of symbols and markings along the wall. When she squints and tilts her head, she comes to the conclusion that a few are probably depictions of creatures, some type of people or animals at best. Others could potentially be letters or numbers in a foreign language, but she has no idea what it means._  
_Either way, they look ancient, as does this entire corridor, really. She does not recognize the design, but the surface is somewhat cracked and corroded, with dust lying in thick layers everywhere._

_She steps closer to some of the symbols and raises her hands to touch them, but when her hand comes within view, her attention is immediately drawn to it. It’s different from what she remembers, being much wrinklier and discolored, having gained some type of greyish or ashen shade instead. How is that possible? How could this have happened to her? Or even more importantly, when? She doesn’t remember being taken anywhere, and yet…_

_Her thoughts are interrupted by a sound in the distance, some sort of laughter of unknown origin. It echoes, but when she glances around, she can spot no source. At the far end of the corridor, shadows can be observed moving about, but they are so twisted that it’s impossible to tell what they’re trying to display. The most likely conclusion is that it’s people, as she knows no other creature with a laughter like that, but who can tell for sure?_

_Despite a severe presence of reluctance in her mind, she opposes all such thoughts and begins to walk. She has to seek out these people and find some answers. Someone must know why she has been brought here, yes? It’s very unlikely that she walked here of her own accord._  
_As she strides through these halls, much slower than she would prefer, she gets the distinct sense of being watched. Someone is observing her very closely, but she doesn’t know who, what or from where. There are clearly no windows here and except for the two separate ends of the corridor, there are no other holes one can peer through. But this sensation is unmistakable. Is she imagining it?_

_“Omnipotent.”_

_The word that is spoken echoes across the area, into her mind, practically sending vibrations through the air. She swirls around, trying to locate the speaker, but there’s no one here. She’s still alone, as far as she can see._  
_Did someone actually say that, or is it all in her head? She can’t differentiate in this…reality, wherever she is. Everything is so blurry, and her head is getting exceptionally heavy._

 _She tries to shake these feelings off, the worries of what is happening to her. She can’t let anxiety take over and slow her down. There’s no one to respond to any of her inquiries right now anyhow, which means she should postpone them. She has a purpose, a goal, and has to follow it._  
_In the distance, towards the path she’s striding, she believes that she can hear scurrying, potentially footsteps. More shadows reappear, like flickering flames. There are definitely people here somewhere. Are they waiting for her?_

_“Omniscient.”_

_A second word, this one more powerful than the last. This time, there’s no doubt that this is happening in her mind and she is pretty sure that the voice was deeper than before. Has it gained strength or simply altered to gain her attention?_  
_She has to stop for now, as the journey is getting tiresome. She is forced to lift a hand up to her head, as every syllable of what she heard keeps pulsating through her mind, draining more of her energy._

 _This is when she makes a startling discovery. As her hand reaches the skin of her face, she feels that there is something strange to it. It is not as smooth as it should be, but coarse and uneven, cracked in places. There are all kinds of knots and infected wounds, disturbing the tranquility of her hide._  
_The more she tries to touch, the further her fear rises. Her face does not only have the wrong texture, but it is also completely deformed. Despite the fact that she can clearly see, her eyes are gone. There’s a large gap right across her upper face, but not one that is empty. Instead, there’s an elongated limb poking out from that section, like a thick worm or a snout._  
_The whole revelation is so terrifying that she wants to scream, but no sound leaves her mouth._

_“Sovereign.”_

_This time, she groans and stumbles, finding it difficult not just to continue, but to even stand on her two feet. Every word that has been spoken so far has absorbed more and more of her stamina, like sharp invisible blades stabbing her._  
_What in Oblivion is happening to her? Where is she going right now? What’s her goal? Who is doing this horrible thing to her? Is she being punished for something? Why? What is it that has defiled her body?_

 _Soon enough, the shadows and the scurrying doesn’t matter anymore. She doesn’t want to know what is going on here. Let it all burn._  
_She wants to turn and run, to escape this nightmare, but her legs won’t carry her any further. She can only stand where she is, while panting. This whole place is cursed and overwhelming to the point where her body can do nothing more than tremble out of fear and weakness._

 _“Immutable”, she hears, shortly before she falls to the ground. That was the last straw, the final penetration that completed her ungraceful descent to the floor. She sits on her knees in a bent position, her hands being the only elements that keep her from face-planting the ground. Another laughter erupts after the fall._  
_“How sweet it is to be a god.”_

 _While she hopes, almost prays that she will regain some kind of strength in this position, she hears noises right in front of her. This time, the footsteps are undeniable._  
_Someone is approaching and if she lifts her head just a little, she can spot naked legs and feet striding towards her, moving with certainty and purpose, two aspects that she has not been able to replicate in here._

 _Once more, she desperately wants to escape, hoping to force her body into reclaiming its determination. She doesn’t know why, but she simply cannot let this creature be close to her. Unfortunately, she has no choice. She is not going anywhere, and her only remaining option is to wait and let it reach her._  
_Eventually, whomever it is, stops in front of her, allowing her to observe the feet for a few moments. Instead of giving her time to look up in her own pace, she senses how an invisible force seizes her chin and pulls her into the right angle, giving he no other alternative._

 _In front of her stands a slim, tall and almost completely naked man, except for the red cloth around his groin, wrists and feet. His skin is grey, like a dunmer, but his height goes far above that, above most people that she has ever met. Could he even reach past most nords and altmer? She’s not sure._  
_The most astonishing aspect of his figure is the large golden mask that covers his face and extends down to his shoulders. It has a pointed chin and three small protruding poles from the top. She doesn’t quite know why or from where, but the sight of this object is…familiar._

 _The eye section of the mask glimmers with small lights, like swirling centers of a storm. He reaches out with his hand towards her._  
_“Come, Nerevar”, he tells her, with the same voice she has heard thus far. “Join us.”_

 _His words echo in her mind, making the whole corridor shake and collapse, attempting to devour her soul. She awakens soon after._  


* * *

  
Jollain wakes up with a startled gasp, shooting herself up from a prone position and clenches her hands over the sheets of the bed. Sweat pours down her brow, across her face and she is almost on the verge of screaming, but somehow manages to restraint herself enough to merely pant in fearful recognition, hoping to not draw attention from anyone. Her eyes move about in panic, trying to understand where she is.

Eventually, she can’t take it anymore and she jumps out of the bed. She glances around the vicinity, trying to discern if she’s still in that ancient hallway, but there is nothing in here that resembles it. No, this is just her apartment, the same one that she has been living in for months now. There’s no golden mask, no prying shadows, nor any footsteps in the distance. In fact, her home isn’t even large enough to compare with the length of that corridor.

In sheer shock and dread, she moves her hands over her face and body, using the touch to determine if there are any remnants of what she felt before. She just got out of bed, so she’s not actually wearing anything at this time, but thankfully, she detects nothing out of the ordinary. Her skin is as it should be – perhaps somewhat dry for the time being – but it is not ill or decayed, nor is her face distorted into…whatever that was.

After she has made sure that she is herself, she should feel relief, but her mind isn’t giving her the peace she craves. Disgust and horror keeps prodding her, and she feels a sensation in her throat as if she’s about to throw up, but she tries to fight it. It is rather overwhelming, but she won’t let it take charge. She stumbles away and holds onto the back of a nearby chair, bends forward and lets the sweat and saliva drip down onto the floor.

She had been so distracted by it, that she doesn’t notice how someone comes up behind her and touches her arm.  
“Jollain?”

Jollain immediately straightens herself, swirls around, takes several quick steps away and screams in fear. Her hand instinctively rises, and sparks of lighting erupt from it, as she prepares the only real spell she’s capable of. If that monster is in here, she’s damn well going to defend herself.  
Fortunately, the person she faces is not the one she expected. Sure, it is someone with dark grey skin, long black hair and almost the same height as the man in her dream, but not only does she have larger breasts than that person, her body is also more muscular.

Tayerise’s red eyes widen in mild surprise, as she backs off and raises her hands in front of her.  
“Hey, calm down! It’s just me!” She tries to move slowly, as to not make it worse. “No need to be afraid. You’re at home, remember?”

Jollain continues to breathe heavily, while she surveys not just the other woman, but the rest of the apartment. Once more, she recognizes the truth in the statement, the appearance of her home. She’s definitely not dreaming anymore.  
“Oh, thank the Nine”, Jollain mutters, while she disperses the spell. She raises a hand and rubs it over her face, trying to calm herself. “That was just…fuck.”

Now that she is not quite as dazed by panic anymore, she senses how damp some parts of her body have gotten due to the sweat, how warm she her skin feels and that every section of her being trembles somewhat.  
Tay looks increasingly more worried.  
“Can I…come closer?”

Jollain lifts her gaze, viewing her girlfriend with confused eyes.  
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, it’s okay. I just…” She emits a shaky breath. “I had a nightmare.”

Tay moves slowly and carefully, hoping not to make any sudden actions that worsen the situation. She places a hand on Jollain’s arm and caresses it softly.  
“Yeah, I noticed. Are you okay?”

Wanting to show that there’s no need to hold back, Jollain tilts herself forward and leans into Tay, hugging her tightly. The dunmer returns the embrace soon after.  
“I…I don’t know.”

While she holds her beloved, Tay slowly runs a hand over Jollain’s hair and the other descends across the bosmer’s back.  
“What happened?”

Jollain buries her face in Tay’s chest and shuts her eyes.  
“I’m not sure. It was all just so…strange. The nightmare was unlike anything I’ve had in a long time. You know when you get dreams that just feel so, like, real?”

“As if you’re really there?”

“Yeah. I had that now, but it was worse than that. It wasn’t just like I was there, but as if the whole thing was…forced on me. Like someone was trapping or controlling me, trying to reshape me inside of that place.”

Tay furrows her brow in thought. The words ignite the protective instincts from within and she holds Jollain closer, while brushing her nose against the top of the bosmer’s hair.  
“What place?”

“I dunno, I’ve never seen it before. It felt ancient and abandoned. It was extremely warm and dark all the time. Some kind of ruins, maybe? Either way, I didn’t recognize it.  
While I was there, someone was constantly talking to me, but not _with_ me. He was…giving me commands or something. My body changed, became deformed and I could hardly even move.  
I felt like…like I was a prisoner, but only one out of many. I could sense others nearby, but couldn’t reach or talk to them.  
Eventually, he caught up to me and just-…well, that’s when I woke up.”

“Hmm. Do you remember anything else?”

Jollain stays silent for a few seconds, trying to search her memories.  
“No. It’s…becoming harder to remember details now. I can just recall the…”

Her words drift off, disappearing into nothingness.  
“The what?”

The bosmer opens her mouth, as if she’s about to say something else, but then discards it.  
“…never mind.”

At the same time, Tay is starting to look very worried. She has never seen Jollain react to a nightmare like this, which is why she can’t help the increasing concern.  
“This sounds both weird and scary. Do you remember who it was that held you trapped in there? Was it someone we know?”

Jollain’s expression turns somewhat distant, as the one lingering memory overwhelms her thoughts – the golden gleaming light. It eats into the back of her mind and refuses to leave her alone.  
“No, it wasn’t.”

“Then who? Do you know anything about him?”

For several more moments, Jollain ponders her answer, but eventually decides to scrap it. She shakes her head and allows herself to stand on her own.  
“It doesn’t matter.”

“What? But…that can’t be true. If he hurt you, shouldn’t it matter?”

“It was just a dream, Tay.”

“Dreams can be powerful in the right or wrong hands. They can have a lot of meaning too. I just want to be sure.”

Jollain sighs, looks up at Tay’s eyes and places a hand against her chest.  
“Look, I…I don’t want to think about this anymore, okay? I’m shaky enough as it is. Can we please change the subject?”

Tay’s first instinct is to turn it down, as her protective inclinations cannot so simply let go of a concern like this. She feels as if she deserves to know, so that she can do more.  
However, soon enough, she gives in, realizing it’s not fair to push Jollain. She doesn’t have that right.  
“If that’s what you want.”

“You know what I want?”  
She pushes herself into Tay’s arms again, snuggling into the strong body of her lover.  
“I wanna lie down in bed with you, under the sheets, and then I want you to hold me. I could really use some comfort right now. You make me feel safe.”

Despite her previous intentions, Tay manages to smile. As they look at each other, she tilts her head down and places a tender kiss on the bosmer’s lips. Jollain tastes of sweat and her mouth is rather dry, but the sensation is sweeter for Jollain, as residues of the tea they drank last night has remained on her.  
“Sure. Anything for you.”


	3. Sparks

It’s funny to Jollain how, even after a year on Vvardenfell, she is still so drawn to the night, still spends so much time in the darkness of those hours. She has a variety of reasons for being outside during it and some might even say that it’s when she’s as most useful, though she questions the validity of this statement herself. She’d like to believe that she can operate just as well during the day, if she preferred to.

Night isn’t her most active time only because she’s a spy, because she’s affiliated with the Thieves Guild or because most of her contacts prefer to meet in the dark. No, she also thoroughly enjoys it. That, on its own, can have several interpretations as well.  
Perhaps it’s because she was potentially born under the careful watch of the stars, maybe it’s because she can hide so much more efficiently at these hours or maybe it’s because she loves the sight of the moons.

Whatever the reason, she can’t deny that she is often compelled to enjoy the comfort of the shadows and this particular night is no different. Well, except for the fact that it does not involve any of her usual business.  
As of late, there’s another activity that has been useful to plan and handle during the late hours. She meets with another being of the night, one that only occasionally comes to Balmora in order to chat and help Jollain out with a particular aspect.

Currently, Jollain is wearing some gear that she’s been utilizing on almost a daily basis in the last few months, an outfit that she commissioned herself.  
It includes a leather jacket with a bit taller collar, which has been somewhat reinforced, especially with metal pieces around the wrists and elbows. She also has leather pants for the same reason, which hugs her in certain regions. Her feet are adorned with sturdy boots, that have small steel plates within at the front, to protect the toes.  
This entire outfit is black with red lines and highlights. The shirt underneath is dark grey and much softer, to give her at least a little bit of comfort. From the collar of the jacket hangs a small and thin iron symbol, depicting a guar. It is something that Tay bought for her.

The woman she’s about to meet usually wears much less elaborate clothes when they see each other, preferring dark robes, typically equipped with a cowl. When Jollain senses her coming from the darkness, it appears she opted for this tonight as well.  
It’s a little scary how easily Vaziri slips through the shadows, for a mage type. Jollain is used to such individuals being somewhat clumsier and perhaps even flashier, preferring to be seen and heard. Vaziri really is the professional killer that she has claimed to be. It’s hard to determine if the Morag Tong taught her this, or if she is simple a natural.

The khajiit lifts her hands and pulls the hood back, revealing her appearance beneath the light of the moons. Jollain can see the familiar dark grey fur with occasional white spots, the bronze earring in the left ear and the scarred right one, which is half-sliced off. As usual, Vaziri has no visible mane, as she prefers to cut it. Her orange eyes glimmer with amusement.  
“Ah, good to see that you are on time tonight, sera”, she says with her slight accent. Jollain still doesn’t know if that’s on purpose or not, to sound like other khajiit. Vaziri doesn’t use the other mannerisms, such as speaking her own name a lot.  
“Usually, it is I who arrive early, while you stall.”

Jollain folds her arms and rolls her eyes.  
“That’s not at all what I do. Compared to you, I’ve got a lot of tasks to complete.”

Vaziri tilts her head curiously.  
“For the Thieves Guild? Or is this about your ‘mysterious benefactors’ again, hmm?”

Her voice drips with mirth, which makes Jollain sigh.  
“…are you ever going to stop prodding me about that?”

“Maybe when it becomes less amusing to annoy you.”

“So, ‘never’, then.”

Vaziri laughs in response.  
Despite having spent the last few months meeting with this woman every now and then, Jollain still doesn’t know if she feels entirely comfortable with Vaziri. She doesn’t understand why the khajiit agreed to train her, but after they had discussed magic and spellcasting together at one point, it was simply decided. Jollain had to expand her usage of magic, and as Vaziri apparently liked to meet with her on a regular basis, it seemed like the perfect solution.

In fact, the assassin wasn’t just open to the idea, she was very intrigued, practically thrilled that Jollain would consider it. The whole process was agreed upon without hesitation, at least on Vaziri’s end.  
Vaziri had one request in return – that Jollain occasionally provides her with news about the happenings around Balmora. That was it. Vaziri does receive ‘jobs’ here from time to time, after all, and needed a better contact. Seeing as how Jollain is doing that anyway, it wasn’t too much to ask. For now.

“How are you doing, Jollain? What is life like at home, with you and Tayerise?”

Jollain is leaning against a house wall at this time and shrugs casually.  
“Yeah, it’s good. Living with someone, especially her, is…better than I ever thought it’d be. It’s nice to wake up next to someone, to always be able to rely on another person.  
I kinda wish we’d get more chances to be alone, though. I mean, we have our home, of course, but it’d be nice to go on a vacation at some point.”

“Was that not what you were doing in the past few weeks?”

The bosmer snorts amusedly and shakes her head.  
“Nah, we were on a pretty big mission together. Required a lot of our attention.”

“I see. If you had the chance to obtain such a break, where would you go?”

An intriguing question and one that Jollain hadn’t pondered before. She hasn’t really had that chance.  
She raises a hand and scratches her cheek.  
“Huh. I dunno, really. Perhaps somewhere outside of Vvardenfell, on the mainland? I haven’t visited that place much, nor has she, since she’s always so busy.”

“Well, if you want a recommendation, I would suggest the mountains to the west, as they are quite pleasant for hikes and climbing. Another potential area of interest is the coastline along the Inner Sea, which has some cozy villages here and there. There are beautiful forests in that region too, even wider than on Vvardenfell.  
That said, you should look out for Dres slavers down there. The Empire may oppose the tradition, but that doesn’t stop them from seizing people anyhow.”

Jollain starts looking a bit unsure, not having expected the recommendation nor how gloomy it would get at the end.  
“Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll…keep that in mind.”

Vaziri offers her a small smile and it’s one of those that Jollain can’t interpret, yet again. Is she amused by Jollain’s reaction, pleased with it, or merely trying to appear polite?  
“Splendid.” Her voice is the same way; calm, calculated, cryptic.  
“Now then, another question. Have you spoken to Tayerise about me since we last met?”

“Well, yeah, a little bit. I had to explain who you were.”  
Their first meeting was about a month ago, just as these two were starting another training sessions. Due to Vaziri’s general interest in Jollain, it was inevitable that the khajiit would eventually bump into Tayerise.  
“She was a little unnerved when I told her the truth. She’s not fond of assassins in general and said that Morag Tong is especially dangerous.”

Vaziri doesn’t look offended. In fact, there’s a mischievous glint in her eye, like she might enjoy it.  
“She certainly has a point, even if the code of the Tong would prevent me from doing anything drastic without a contract.”

“Heh, yeah, I know that by now. Been around you long enough to realize I don’t need to be scared, as long as I don’t piss you off.”

“I am pleased that you have gotten to know me so well.  
At any rate, I would not mind seeing Tayerise again, if such a meeting can be arranged.”

Jollain rubs a hand around her neck, contemplating the angles in this request. What’s her interest in Tayerise? She doesn’t have any magical talents.  
“Uh, why?”

“She is your beloved, yes? I enjoy meeting those who are important to my friends.”

“Well-“ She stops herself and blinks confusedly. “…wait. ‘Friends’?”

“Yes. Is that not what we are?”

It’s not like Jollain is completely averse to the idea, but it comes a bit out of nowhere. She’s not sure that she has even considered the possibility.  
“I…I dunno. Guess I hadn’t really thought about that. You’re more, like…my teacher.”

“Can a master and student not be friends?”

“Hmm, good question. Guess that depends on the circumstances.  
If you really wanna view us that way, though, I mean, I guess I don’t mind. Having an assassin buddy is pretty useful.”

“Ah, of course, though I hope you will come to see me as more than that eventually.”

It’s not like that’s all Jollain sees her as right now either, but it does become a rather unavoidable topic at times.  
When they first encountered each other, back in Vivec, she never suspected that it might lead any further. She was so outraged by the idea that there are people allowed to kill others without being arrested, that she hoped to simply scrub Vaziri out of her memory. And yet now they meet each other on a regular basis, to the extent where Jollain actually feels comfortable with her. Best not to tell her all of this, though. Jollain has to make sure that trust exists on both sides first.

“Speaking of teaching”, Vaziri continues, “have you been working on the assignments I gave you during our last session? The homework, one might say.”

Jollain moves a hand through her hair, scratching her head as she gets an annoyed look on her face.  
“Yeah, I gave it a try, but it’s not been easy. I’ve attempted all the spells you told me to study, but none of them have been very successful.”

Vaziri watches her curiously, lifting a hand to tap a finger over her own mouth.  
“Hmm. Not any of them? Not even a simple ward?”

The bosmer shuts her eyes and exhales through her nose.  
“…don’t say it like that. You’re making me sound like an idiot.”

Thankfully, her teacher offers her a sympathetic smile.  
“Ah, my apologies. That was not my intention.  
I will admit that I am somewhat confused. Due to how quickly you learned and improved upon the lightning spells that I showed you, I figured other incantations would progress at a similar rate.”  
She has definitely gotten better. Jollain is now not only able to emit lightning from her hand, but she can create temporary traps, bolts and sometimes even miniature storms.  
“What you have accomplished in the past few months is an impressive amount of control, something you rarely see in other mages.”

Jollain shrugs and then lifts her right hand, letting sparks of lightning appear in it.  
“Well, that’s just it. This is pretty much all I can do. I’ve had access to it since I was a kid and it always came as naturally to me as breathing.”

Vaziri nods quickly.  
“Indeed, which is why I assumed that you had a natural affinity for magic, a potential to become a great sorcerer. I believed you would be able to get control of any spell to the same extent.  
It is rather strange to think that you are so powerful with one particular element and yet know no other.”

After dispersing the magic in her hand, Jollain crosses her arms again.  
“Is that completely unheard of? There’s never been anyone with a knack for only a few spells?”

“Oh, there has been; many of them, in fact. For example, I am very adept with the element of fire.  
For the most part, though, people with some kind of affinity can cast other types of magic too. They simply have a talent bound to a specific spell, element or entire school.  
For you, that does not extend further than using lightning in offensive measures. That you are so useless with other magic, to hardly even be able to grasp it, is certainly something unique.”

Jollain doesn’t really like what she’s hearing, and she starts to pout.  
“…what, so I’m unique because I suck as a mage? Thanks, ‘master’. Very nice of ya to point that out.”

Vaziri tilts her head back and laughs.  
“I apologize again, if I offended you, sera. I am merely speaking the truth.”

“…you could’ve been gentler about it.”

The khajiit closes the distance between them and places a hand on her shoulder.  
“Do not mistake my explanation for disinterest, however. I have no intentions of giving up on you just yet. If you are willing, I will continue to train you, Jollain. I still believe in your talents.”

Well, that does sound a little bit better, at least. Vaziri rarely feels the need to lie, after all. She may not tell Jollain everything, but she wouldn’t obscure the truth.  
“I mean, yeah, I’d like that. What we’ve been doing so far has been…you know, nice. Didn’t think I’d ever learn anything about magic.”

“I’m glad to hear that you are so enthusiastic. There are still a few spells that I would be most eager to help you improve upon, ones I believe you can obtain the skill for.  
And, well, we shouldn’t discard your foremost ability either. Maybe you can learn to fully master the lightning, which would be quite a boon. I believe you are capable of becoming better than most I have ever encountered in that regard. I have never met anyone with such swift control over it. I will freely admit that you are better at lightning than I have ever been.”  
She smiles and pats the bosmer’s shoulder.  
“See? There is your praise.”

Jollain rolls her eyes, but she manages to mirror Vaziri’s expression anyhow.  
“Yeah, yeah…thanks.”

“So then, my student, ready for another lesson?”

Jollain pushes herself from the wall, takes a deep breath and then begins to prepare for what is to come. These sessions are rarely simple. In some ways, they’re similar to all the training she does with Maak-Veh, except this strains her mind rather than her body.  
She raises her hand, lets the sparks appear from it and surveys how they traverse her skin. It still comes so easily, answering her every call without hesitation. It’s strange that this is how it works, how something she hasn’t been able to fully comprehend can be closer to her than any other weapon. She’s not ungrateful, just…confused.

“I still don’t really understand this power, but yeah, sure. Let’s get to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In case you were wondering where Jollain's increased magical prowess came from, well, now you know. It won't extend much further than this, though. I'll get into the nature of that later on in this story._   
>  _As for Jollain's new outfit, it looks a bit more like it does in the image on her profile, although not quite. The top profile picture is one I took ages ago, with a mod that used Triss Merigold's outfit from the Witcher 2. Jollain doesn't quite wear that here, but similar._


	4. At history's behest

It’s around the middle of the day when Jollain and Maak-Veh traverse the streets of Balmora, moving through the city's alleyways towards a particular house. A meeting was called by their leader, the spymaster of the Vvardenfell section of the Order of Blades, Caius Cosades.  
It’s not unusual that he does this, as there are certain tasks during specific circumstances that may need to be dealt with simultaneously. If not, he might also have news which could be of interest to them.

The hour that was chosen isn’t exactly perfect, as they do not have the darkness of evening or night to protect them, but this particular section of the city is at least fairly empty at this time. Most of the citizens are either busy with their jobs or visiting the market district for various reasons. Caius’ apartment is located in a corner of city anyway, one which is rarely of interest to anyone. That seems to have been the intended impression as well.

Before they reach their destination, the duo stops a few blocks away and waits. They know that someone will join them quite soon and there’s no point in doing so outside the door. That would look a little bit too suspicious, if they linger. Thankfully, the stop is not lengthy, as they soon see someone coming around the corner.  
Tayerise is dressed in her current combat outfit, a combination of chain mail, steel and leather gear, most of it in black, red and beige colors, partially to match Jollain. In terms of reinforced sections, it does also look similar to Maak’s attire, even if he has more leather than metal.

Tay is not alone either, as she has a trusted companion at her side. A mischievous little creature follows her, with black scales, big yellow reptilian eyes and several large red stripes on his back, the natural pattern of his hide. Amnet, Tay’s mount and combat guar, has remained a faithful assistant during the past few months, even if he won’t stop his playful streak. He loves messing around and having fun, even during certain times when the dunmer prefers to be more serious.

As soon as he spots Jollain, he emits a cheerful grunt and quickly rushes past Tay, who sighs. The bosmer smiles brightly as she sees him and kneels down. The two meet nearby and Amnet happily runs his head against hers, which makes her giggle as she caresses his scales.  
“Aww, I’m glad to see you too, buddy! Who’s a good boy, huh?”  
She receives a few more joyful squeaks in return. This is only shortly before she notices how his eyes turn towards her clothes. It makes her smirk.  
“Looking for a treat, are ya? Alright, can’t hurt with just one."

She digs her hands into her pockets and fishes out a piece of dried alit meat, which is laced with some netch jelly. Amnet’s eyes widen in excitement, but he doesn’t attempt to take it from her. Instead, he obediently waits for her to offer it to him, which he then devours eagerly.  
Tay observes the event and shakes her head when she arrives at his side.  
“I keep telling you not to give him that. He’s growing accustomed to it.”

Jollain glances up at Tay, her voice infused with mirth.  
“What, that his shorter mommy is so nice? I don’t mind that.”

“…not what I meant, and you know it.”

Once Jollain rises to her feet, the two of them interact with a quick, albeit still quite a loving kiss. They are not afraid to show their affection in the open, especially since the public knowledge would be that they live together.  
Shortly after, Tay spots Maak as well and proceeds to greet him with a friendly hug. During the months that she has spent in the Blades, Tay has grown close to him too and they definitely regard each other as friends by now. He is a reliable man.

“How are you doing, Maak?”

When they separate, he inclines his head in recognition.  
“Quite well, thank you. The job keeps me busy, as always. It’s not a great season for hunters, though, according to the news across the island.”

“Oh? Something going on?”

“It appears that the Blight is spreading further than it did last year and it’s slowly getting worse. Many creatures cannot avoid the ash storms any longer and more are getting infected.”

Tay turns her eyes down, a look of sadness washing over them.  
“Ah, I see. That’s a shame. I feel like many of them are suffering enough, but it appears nature doesn’t agree. At least many citizens can protect themselves.  
Suppose I’ll have to send word to mother at some point, ask her to get a shelter for the guar.”

Maak nods and then directs his eyes towards Amnet, whose head he is now stroking. The guar appears to like him too.  
“I would recommend doing the same for your friend here too. You need to acquire some type of protection if you ever ride close to the Ashlands.”

“Don’t worry, I know. I’ve taken precautions already, though I suppose it couldn’t hurt buying some extra gear, in case it gets worse.”

“That’s what I would do.  
Regarding other news, I heard that a few Fighters Guild mercs got into some type of dispute with the Mages Guild recently, over some questionable equipment. Know anything about that?”

It isn’t really an accusation, merely an inquiry. If she was actually involved, Tay would naturally report it. As long as the Empire, or at least the Emperor, isn’t adversely affected in any way, the Blades tend to allow certain foul play, in order to maintain their cover.  
Tay sighs briefly and shrugs.  
“I wasn’t associated with it, but this kind of confrontation happens every now and then. This time, it involved some rookies who didn’t understand that they can’t just get bonuses for everything.”

It sounds pretty casual and straightforward, but Jollain can’t help smiling regardless. She doesn’t say it, but she’s glad that Tay is growing into her new role so quickly. It seems she feels more at home with the mentality of the Fighters Guild than she ever did with Camonna. Now, if only the Tong could stop messing with Jollain and the Thieves Guild, she’d have much less issues to deal with. Though, the likelihood of that happening is quite low.

“Ah, I suppose that’s to be expected”, says Maak. “Still, perhaps best to watch the situation regardless.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Jollain moves up to them and holds onto one arm on each.  
“Alright, think we’ve waited enough. Time to go see the boss, don’t you agree?”

The trio, together with Amnet, moves through the city and approaches Caius' house, which as usual looks like quite a mess from the outside.  
Interestingly, it’s actually been a few days since they last saw or heard from the old man. He does disappear on personal missions every now and then, and that’s not strange per se, but it can unfortunately create a bit of confusion in the organization. Due to how critical he is to the process of Vvardenfell’s spy network, the agents are very dependent on him, perhaps even to a stupid degree. They all know that there are more Blades elsewhere on the island, but most of them don’t know where. Only Caius is informed of all the details.

They approach the door and knock on it a very specific manner, a code to let him know it’s them. Shortly after, they hear the sound of the door unlocking and his voice responding.  
“Enter.”

As they open it and begin to step inside, Tay caresses Amnet’s jaw and looks into his eyes.  
“Guard the door for us, will you? Stop any bad guys from getting in.”  
He responds with a quick grunt and then sits down by the wall next to the door.

Once they enter, they notice that Caius looks a bit unusual today. His head is still mostly bald, with only some grey hair around the sides, but it’s the clothes that get their attention. It’s not that the outfit is particularly expensive, but more the fact that he wears a greater amount than they’re used to. Most of the time, he’s half-naked in his home or clothed in no more than rags, to keep up appearances, but today he wears a full and clean attire, except for shoes.  
Upon entry, they also see him sitting by his table, currently writing some type of letter.

“Hey, that’s a weird outfit”, Jollain comments. “You look like you just got back.”

Caius continues to write something for a few seconds, until he exhales and straightens his back.  
“I did, sort of. It was no more than a few hours ago, but I’ve been too busy in general to resume the role. I’ll get there eventually.”  
As he stands up, he notices their faces, how the trio are all beginning to display small amounts of worry. It’s not uncalled for, as they rarely see Caius overwhelmed by anything. He’s always in control, always two steps ahead of everyone else.  
“Wipe that concern off your brows. Everything is fine, just hectic.”

Jollain snorts and folds her arms, pretending she never showed anything like it.  
“Who’s worried? Just waiting for you to stop stalling.”

“Right”, he says, rather unconvinced. He discards this topic fairly quickly and surveys their states.  
“I can see that you’re all in shape and fully prepared to do some work. Good, because you’re going to need it.”  
He takes off his jacket and approaches a box in one of the corners, which he pushes it into.  
“I spoke with Legate Svalen earlier, who wanted to express her gratitude for your help with the Tenth Dusk matter. She never properly had the chance at the time, but you all did a lot of good work to prevent that disaster from ever happening. She’s pleased, which means I am too.”

Jollain smirks when she hears it.  
“Tsk. Didn’t have the time, huh? We spent hours debriefing her and not once during that time did she say ‘thanks’. Bet that was on purpose too.”

Caius merely shrugs.  
“That’s what she’s like, which you should know by now. She doesn’t like getting emotional.”

“Pff, yeah right. And yet she keeps acting like she’s my mother.”

Tay arches a skeptical eyebrow towards Jollain.  
“Uh, yes, because you treat her that way.”

“What? No, I don’t.”

“You call her ‘mom’.”

“Yeah, but only because it annoys her.”

Tay rolls her eyes, realizing that she’ll never understand this side of her girlfriend.  
Maak is more interested in other aspects of this issue and focuses on Caius.  
“Do you believe the Dusk is finished?”

Caius throws off one shirt, but keeps a thin short-sleeved one on for now.  
“No, I doubt it. Actually, I think they’re far from done. All reports indicate that we’ve only managed to deal with a small number of their cells and some were able to escape before we could apprehend them. They have faced setbacks before and that’s all this is.  
With the mission on Vvardenfell, a failed coup in southern Elsweyr and their operations in High Rock ending in several arrests, they’ll probably lay low for a while. They’ll be back, though, unless they choose to disband.”

“Well, at least that will offer us a break”, Maak comments. “We have other issues to deal with. With Camonna, Great House disputes and Legion misconducts, we should be rather busy for the foreseeable future.”

Caius nods slowly, but he seems to disappear for a little while, gazing off into the distance. It takes a few seconds for him to return, and he’s ready for a change of topic at that point.  
“Let’s get to the business of why I called you here. I have a new mission in mind, which I would prefer to send all three of you on. You’re going to Vivec.”

A joint mission for the whole trio isn’t unheard of, but it tends to involve rather dangerous or more critical scenarios. Dealing with the Tenth Dusk was certainly proof of that.  
“Vivec, huh? Haven’t been there in a while”, says Jollain. In fact, none of them visit the holy city very often. They rarely need to and working in that city as an imperial spy can be dangerous anyhow. One must know exactly how to traverse the area with ease.

The spymaster starts by focusing on the bosmer, studying her carefully for a few moments.  
“I believe the others are somewhat more familiar with him, but how much do you know of Nerevar, Jollain?”

Jollain stops all thoughts and movements as the name is spoken. A sensation comes surging through her body, reaches her mind and lets a distant echo reverberate in her head.  
_“Come, Nerevar.”_

She grows distant for a second or two, her eyes darting back and forth without any specific goal. Where did that come from? Why does she know that name, and yet nothing about it?  
Eventually, she realizes that the silence probably gets weird and quickly tries to shake it off.  
“Uh, nothing at all, really. Why?”

“Figured as much”, says the old man and gets seated in his chair again. He looks at the dunmer now.  
“Tayerise, you’re from around here and this is dunmer history. You should tell her.”

Tay hesitates, obviously knowing the tale, but she doesn’t wish to sound stupid, in case she gets something wrong.  
“Well, I’ll…do what I can.” She turns to Jollain, meeting her eyes. “His full name and title was Lord Indoril Nerevar, a man that is honored and admired by Ashlanders and the Great Houses alike.  
In the Tribunal faith, Nerevar is revered as a saint and a hero, for what he did to protect our nation thousands of years ago. Invaders from other lands came to Morrowind and conquered it, but his strategies and leadership ousted them.  
Many Ashlanders love him for the same reason, but mostly because he was an outlander that honored and understood their ways. This was important and helped unify our people.”

Jollain listens carefully, but she still looks a bit skeptical. She raises a hand to scratch her cheek as she ponders the story.  
“That’s uh…interesting, I guess? History has never really been my thing, though. I don’t even know the name of all the Emperors.”

“I know”, Caius admits, “but for this mission, it is important that you hear more.  
Now, Tayerise, tell me, do you know about the Nerevarine?”

If she was doubtful before, Tay now appears severely reluctant regarding continuing down this line.  
“Erm, well…yes, I do, but that is…you know, heresy, according to the Temple.”

“True, but they aren’t listening inside this apartment. Indulge me.”

Jollain actually feels a little bit uncomfortable when she watches her girlfriend, seeing the uncertainty and doubt across her features. Tay manages to push the worries aside, and proceeds, after a cautious sigh.  
“Very well. Some people believe that an orphan and an outcast, a youth born on a certain day to uncertain parents, will rise as the Nerevarine.  
The Nerevarine is the reincarnation of Nerevar, who will rise in order to unite all the dunmer people, drive out the ‘invaders’ and reestablish ancient laws and customs across the nation. That’s at least the general story and all I know.”

“I know of it too”, Maak confesses. “While they claim that it is nothing more than superstition, it’s quite common knowledge in many circles that the Tribunal punishes people who so much as speak the name without some measure of disgust. Anyone who has ever been suggested as a potential reincarnation has been arrested and never seen again.”

Jollain’s eyes are now widened, even somewhat worried.  
“Wow, okay. That’s uh, kinda extreme, but also suspicious. If they actually arrest people for that shit, couldn’t there be something behind it?”

Tay shrugs.  
“No idea. Like I said, it’s just a story.”

“Nor do I”, says Caius. “I don’t know much more than either Maak-Veh or Tayerise. However, I am familiar with someone who is likely more knowledgeable about the entire topic.  
All three of you are going to Vivec to meet with a friend of mine, who lives in the city. Her name is Mehra Milo and she is quite an expert on history and divergent beliefs in Morrowind.  
I want you to speak with her about the Nerevarine cult, as well as the Nerevarine Prophecy.”

Jollain raises a brow rather skeptically.  
“What? Prophecy? I thought it was a story.”

“Apparently, it’s more than that, but I don’t know the details. Mehra will know more, which is why you must speak with her.”

“Hold on, why? Can’t you do it?”

“I could, but heading into Vivec at this time is not wise. The situation in that city right now is unstable and more Ordinators are on the streets than usual.  
On top of this, Mehra is a priestess of the Temple and cannot easily leave the city just to travel to Balmora. The only solution I can find is sending some of my agents, and I trust the three of you the most for this task.”

The request of going into Vivec is not unusual, especially if more Ordinators are watching. That said, there’s another angle which confuses Jollain.  
“Wait”, she says. “This sounds kinda weird to me. You want us to speak to a priestess about a heresy? What, uh…does this have to do with the Empire? How is this Blades business?”

In response, Caius frowns slightly and his gaze gains a stern streak.  
“That’s none of your concern for now. All you need to know is that you have to go there, get the information and listen intently. Trust me when I say this is important for imperial security.”

All three display blatant signs of skepticism and perhaps that isn’t unjustified. Even in this job, this is a strange scenario.  
“Well…okay, if you say so, boss man.”

“It will be hard to miss her. She usually has lunch in a tavern on the southern waistworks of the St Olms canton. She’ll be the dunmer woman in priestess’ clothes, with copper hair and copper eyes.  
And remember, she’s a friend of mine, so please treat her with respect. We haven’t had the chance to see each other in a while and I prefer that she only has good experiences with the Blades.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Jollain still manages to appear quite amused.  
“Legates, priests, Great House members, all the guilds, guards, criminals…you really have contacts everywhere, don’t you?”

Caius doesn’t smile, but the look in his eyes seems to mirror hers.  
“I have lived here for years, Jollain. I know how the game is played and what processes gain the right favors. You shouldn’t be surprised by this anymore.”

“Guess I’m not. It’s just funny to me.”


	5. In shadowed light

It’s rare for Jollain to be able to sense tension in a city so clearly.  
In the Imperial City, Balmora, Ald’ruhn and other places she has been to, there has always been a certain amount of it, with the majority deriving from the inequality surrounding them. The poor are sectioned off, guards protect the areas of the rich and suspicion is thrown against either side. Not to mention the fact that the White-Gold Tower, where the Emperor resides, pretty much watches over all of the citizens from above, making it even more uncomfortable.  
And yet, somehow, Vivec manages to outmatch them all. The unease within the city is practically palpable, an aspect that becomes the most blatant for outsiders who haven’t visited in months.

The first time Jollain ever came here, the experience was…mixed. She was astounded by the sights, the smells, and the size. In many ways, it’s truly an area that can match the Empire’s capital, and perhaps even manage to reach a higher level of magnificence.  
A living god, a city above the water, everything being structured like interlocked islands rather than built behind walls. It was both strange and fascinating.

She can’t say this impression has completely dispersed, even after at least a handful of visits. She still believes that Vivec city is an interesting and scary place simultaneously, but she’s not so wide-eyed anymore.  
She now knows what occurs underneath the façade, behind the shadows and past the veil of what the rulers want people to see.

If she glances up in the air, towards the Ministry of Truth – or Baar Dau – it still terrifies her in certain ways. She has never been inside of it, doesn’t want to, but can guess what it’s like based on what type of individuals the Temple sends there. The fact that it floats in the sky gives the impression of an eye, like the gaze of the god Vivec watching his subjects from above. It still instills Jollain with some amount of fear.  
The city also manages to replicate the same problems with the poor and unfortunate, where they are forced into the sewers – or ‘underworks’ as they call it. It’s a lifestyle Jollain is familiar with, as she used to live in such an environment when she was younger. In that sense, Vivec city experiences exactly the same troubles with criminals and corruption as the Imperial City. After all, who cares about the fate of the poor?

The tension here takes shape through both physical and mental means. For the former, it is most easily noticeable in the shape of the Ordinators. They are everywhere now, along almost every street and level, except the underworks. Some patrol along the canals too, just to make sure that order is maintained.  
The strange golden-armored guards, with helmets shaped like faces, stand in virtually every corner. They watch people, break up fights, question some and occasionally arrest others. Their power is absolute.

For the mental tension, it originates from all the problems that they’re suffering. The increased presence of the Blight, conflicts among the Great Houses on the mainland, disconcerting rumors from Cyrodiil about uprisings and increased criminal activity across Vvardenfell. It’s uncertain times all around.  
All of this is made worse by Vivec’s diminishing appearances. This is something that has been a gradual truth during the centuries since Morrowind joined the Empire, but the last few years have been unprecedented. This year, people can’t even remember if he has been sighted at all, and they grow very concerned.

In the past, Vivec could often be seen either outside of his palace in the back, or by the High Fane – the very heart of the Tribunal Temple, sitting over the Temple canton here in the city. Sometimes, he would materialize as a gleaming sight for all to witness and his voice would echo across its length, due to his divine aura and spirit.  
Now, he has hidden away completely, hardly even stepping outside of his palace. No one knows why and that creates questions. Is Vivec weak? Is he ill, perhaps? Or has he become dissatisfied with his faithful, to not even offer them the wisdom they crave?

In fact, the Tribunal has become a more absent entity in general. Similar news has arrived from the mainland, regarding Almalexia, where it’s said she rarely leaves Mournhold or her temple. And Sotha Sil has apparently pretty much disappeared. No one even knows where he is or what he’s doing. He has always been reclusive, but he does occasionally appear on certain special events. That has not happened in several years now.  
Jollain only converses with her girlfriend about such news occasionally, but she knows Tayerise is worried too. Her split belief system is becoming difficult to maintain.

For now, Jollain, Tayerise and Maak-Veh have other concerns. After they stationed Amnet in a stable outside the Foreign Quarters, as he was not allowed to come with them, they walk through the city until they eventually arrive at the St Olms canton. This island is dedicated to providing low-cost housing and shop space to what the Temple dubs ‘deserving merchants’. This, obviously, means almost exclusively dunmer, as they are who Vivec and the Temple prioritize. There are other faithful and worthy merchants from other races, but quite few.

In the past, outlanders would never have been allowed to take a step onto this canton, as they were fiercely restricted to the Foreign Quarters, unless explicitly given permission by Vivec or one of the higherups in the Temple or the Ordinators.  
Nowadays, everyone is allowed to traverse wherever they wish, even if houses for outlanders cannot be found anywhere else than the first canton.

In terms of appearance, St Olms is fairly similar to the St Delyn canton, the area that offers low-cost housing to members of the Temple. The houses, docks, buildings and corridors are much simpler than the cantons of the Great Houses, practically looking humble.  
In comparison to St Delyn, however, St Olms has way more shops and storage facilities, which should have been obvious. They have vendors and stores for food, tools, clothes, furniture, decorations, weapons, armor, alchemical ingredients, books, spices and much more. The Foreign Quarters have a lot of shops too, but not at this level.

“So, this is St Olms, huh?”, Jollain comments as they walk in the middle of the waistworks, the central area for shops. “Nice place. Didn’t get the chance to go here last time. Kinda crowded, though.”

Tay wanders close to her, keeping a hand constantly on her belt. She has a dagger hidden underneath, in case of a fight. They are imperial spies, after all, and if the Ordinators approach them, it might mean that this fact has been discovered.  
“I’ve only been here a few times in my life. Vivec rarely has what I need, that I can’t find in Balmora, except the occasional pilgrimage.”

Jollain glances up at her. Their voices are somewhat drowned in the general noise of the area, which prevents them from spreading too far.  
“What would bring you to this canton?”

“Oh, you know, the usual stuff. I escorted caravans for Camonna here once or twice, and I’ve also helped mother and father sell some gear to merchants. They usually go to Balmora when they need to do so, but sometimes the prices are better here. Some of these merchants really like my father’s leather equipment. It sells quite well, and it keeps him in business, though I always assume that he’s being used.”

“Why doesn’t he get his own booth then?”

Tay hesitates momentarily, as a bit of discomfort enters her eyes.  
“He used to, before…you know.”

Past words and stories flash through Jollain’s mind, regarding the lives of Tay’s family. She suddenly feels stupid.  
“Oh…right. Shit. I’m sorry, Tay.”

She tries to take the dunmer’s hand and Tay accepts it, offering her girlfriend a faint smile.  
“It’s fine. I’m not angry.”

While silence soon returns to them, Maak decides to speak up, trying to defuse the awkwardness. He keeps his voice at a manageable volume, not allowing too many people to overhear.  
“I have also been to this canton a few times, to sell hides, fangs and meat from my hunts. Just like your parents, Tayerise, I tend to prefer Balmora, or even smaller villages and farms, but not always.  
Vivec is useful due to its size. You can gain information here that may not have travelled to other places and no one really suspects a hunter. I come and go around here for those types of rumors.”

Jollain smiles now as well and snorts somewhat amusedly.  
“Heh, guess it’s the same for me. I’m actually familiar with some of the people we’ve passed by, or at least the names. Some of ‘em, you know, ‘trade’ with the Guild.”

Tay studies her girlfriend curiously.  
“Really? They wouldn’t prefer Camonna for those reasons?”

“Many do, yeah, but not all of them. Some think that the Tong go too far and choose us instead.”  
Her expression suddenly twists into a smirk.  
“Actually, if I wanted to, I could probably get some of these people arrested”, she says with a mild sense of mirth in her voice.

Maak slowly shakes his head.  
“Let’s not get into trouble, shall we?”

“Hey, didn’t say I would, just that I _could.”_

When they pass by another corner, Tay briefly glances sideways at the guards nearby, definitely not being the first ones during this journey. She is taller than many of them, but they are much more heavily equipped and armored. She tilts her head down somewhat and whispers.  
“I have to say, all of these Ordinators…they still make me feel uneasy. I’m not unused to seeing them, but if there are so many stationed and patrolling everywhere, the situation must be really dire.”

Jollain squeezes her hand a bit, hoping to remind Tay that she’s here for her.  
“Huh. Figured you wouldn’t be, since you care so much for the Temple.”

“Well, I do, but they are sadly reminiscent of another fact as well.”  
She takes a deep breath and slowly exhale.  
“Just like with the Great House guards, Ordinators discriminate against Ashlander recruits, sometimes even more severely.”

Maak tilts his head curiously.  
“Why would that be an issue? Compared to Jollain and I, you are clearly dunmer. Couldn’t you just refuse to tell them?”

Tay frowns and shakes her head.  
“Not exactly. I do still have my tattoo, which means I can't ever take off my shirt around any of them. That is an issue, but not all of it.  
I have also never wished to hide who I am, where I come from. I was born as an Ashlander and even though I live in the cities, I won’t forget who I was. I still venerate the ancestors and the Good Daedra.”

Her conviction doesn’t falter, even if she can’t exactly flaunt it now either. Thankfully, Maak nods in understanding.  
“I suppose I can sympathize in that sense. I would not wish to hide my origin either. I am saxhleel, and no one will take that away."

This topic is somewhat curious, but seeing how many Ordinators there are nearby, Jollain clears her throat and hopes to draw them away from mentioning daedra and Ashlanders too much.  
“So, uh, Maak, do you know anything about the one we’re supposed to meet?”

The argonian subtly glances around him, making sure that there’s no one nearby, or potentially following them, before he responds.  
“I have encountered her a few times in the past, yes.”

“Is she nice?”

“Nice enough, albeit often fairly quiet and curt. Not because she’s rude, but she tends to keep to herself, with her studies and duties, so she is not all too confident in conversations. Well, unless you get her talking about history.”

Tay waits with her response until they’ve passed by a bit larger crowd, her hold around Jollain’s hand remaining. It seems a lot of people are gathering by the clothes vendor today.  
“Is she a scholar?”

“Sort of, yes. She works in the library. She loves history and lore, studies all kinds of theories and groups. For our current endeavor, that is obviously quite useful.”

“Do you know anything about her friendship with Caius?”, Jollain asks.

Maak furrows his brow slightly, raising a hand to scratch the scales under his chin.  
“Not much more than that they’re good friends. Like the rest of you elves, dunmer can live very long lives, and I believe she is either his age or older.”

“Huh, okay. How’d they meet?”

“I don’t know the details, but before Caius went into his current role, he had others around Vvardenfell. While he spent time in Vivec, he managed to befriend and almost recruit her, but she declined the offer. She is an ally instead, like Asta.”

Tay looks somewhat confused by this information.  
“But why would he allow her to know all of this, if recruitment wasn’t certain?”

Once more, Maak surveys the area, and then gestures for them to take another alleyway, away from a lot of the citizens. They are closing in on their destination, anyhow.  
“Mehra is…not the traditional type of priest or Temple worshipper. She believes in the Tribunal, but often has…questions. Ones that the Tribunal won’t answer.”

Now it’s starting to make a whole lot more sense why they would work together. Caius obviously likes those kinds of people, who think outside the box or remain critical of everything they’re told.  
“Hmm, interesting”, says Jollain. “Do you know if uh, there’s anything more to it?”

Maak looks at the bosmer, his eyes moving back and forth in slight confusion.  
“…more?”

“You know, between them. Feelings and stuff.”

The argonian appears fairly skeptical of her insinuations, but seems pretty sure when he shakes his head.  
“No, there's not. At least as far as I know, they are only friends.”

“Alright. Just thought I’d ask.”

After a few minutes of continued walking, they eventually arrive outside the tavern that Caius had mentioned to them. From the outside, they take a few quick peeks into the door and also the general vicinity of it. Once the scouting is done, they get together in a corner.  
“Couldn’t see any priest in there”, Tay comments. “The only copper hair around is Jollain’s.”

This comment makes Jollain smirk and she corrects her own.  
“Yup. I wonder if she’s as hot as me, though.”

Tay smiles and caresses her cheek.  
“Fairly sure that’s impossible.”

Maak glances between the two of them, before he folds his arms.  
“Let’s split up. Tayerise, you guard the outside and watch for her arrival. Jollain, you and I walk inside – you find a table and I’ll sit by the bar. Go order something to eat too. Any objections?”

The elven duo check with one another, before Jollain shrugs at him.  
“Not really. Was getting kinda hungry anyway.”

“Just make sure that you eat slowly. We still have to wait for her.”

They execute their plan, dividing themselves across their assignments. Jollain orders a fish stew with some bread and a mug of greef, while Maak gets some shein for himself. Tay wanders around outside, occasionally checking with some of the other nearby stores, while keeping an eye open for any movement. They’ve done this before on various occasions, but it’s the first time that they’re all together in Vivec for it.

They wait about an hour for something to happen. At that point, Tay pokes her head into the tavern and offers Jollain a knowing nod. Shortly after, a woman in dark blue robes, a yellow sash and neat golden patterns over the chest and sleeve sections, walks into the tavern. She has pale grey skin, short copper hair and full copper-colored eyes. Her build is fairly average, and her stance is steady, albeit not particularly impressive. There are bags under her eyes and in her hands, she holds a stack of books.

Maak is sitting by the corner of the bar, so she doesn’t see him when she walks up to the owner and orders a simple vegetable soup and a glass of water.  
As she sits down by the table to read some of her literature, Jollain and Maak share a glance. The argonian offers her a nod, which is a signal she understands. They wait a few more minutes, until Mehra gets her meal, before they make their move.

When Jollain sits down on the opposite side, Mehra only notices because of the noise of the chair, as she was too preoccupied with the books to see the bosmer coming. The priestess looks very confused.  
“…what are you doing?”

Jollain smiles politely at her.  
“Mehra Milo?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

Her tone isn’t hostile, nor is her gaze, just a little annoyed that someone would interrupt her without asking. Jollain puts her hand inside her pocket, fishes something out from it and then puts both hands together on the table.  
“I have a friend in Balmora. Said he wanted me to speak with you.”

She parts her hands just a little, enough to show the symbol she holds within – the imperial dragon. From this position, only the priestess can see it. She widens her eyes, tries to quickly compose herself and then nods slowly.  
“Ah, I see. Yes, I…believe I can help you. Let me finish my lunch and I can take you to a suitable location.”

“Sounds good to me.”


	6. Divine doubts

To disappear in Vivec isn’t a difficult task, if one knows where to go. Most corners of the city are watched rather carefully, even more so at this time, when the Ordinators are widening their patrols to an unprecedented degree. To escape the eyes of the Tribunal’s blades, one must move with calculated and swift steps and make the right decision once a gap opens up. Few know how the song of shadows must be played, but it’s rather impressive to witness success.

After she had finished her meal, Mehra left her table with Jollain, where they were quickly joined by the other two in the group. Without explaining how or why, she began taking them all on a little journey, moving through different corridors and alleyways, out of view from most gazes.  
At first, the spies assumed that she would be leading them towards her apartment, but this was a mistaken supposition, as she eventually guided them over the bridge to the Foreign Quarters. Once the right moment appeared, they chose to descend into the underworks, which seems to have been their destination all along. The stenches of waste, decay and death fills their nostrils.

The Blades are somewhat surprised that Mehra would prefer this location, but can certainly see why. Even in these difficult times, this is still the only area that the Ordinators don’t care enough about to patrol. Still, why would that be an issue for a priestess?  
She chooses an empty corner for them, where there doesn’t seem to be anyone nearby and turns to address them. To not draw attention, they choose to not light any torches.

“I apologize for the subtlety, but I had to make sure we weren’t being followed”, she says. Her voice is even, and fairly soft.

“Well, that’s okay, we’re used to it, but why are you so worried?”, asks Jollain. “You’re a member of the Temple, right?”

Mehra hesitates and fidgets with the books under her arm.  
“That’s…true, but doesn’t always mean that I’m safe. Personally, I have a feeling that I’m being watched, whenever I walk around lately. I have to take certain precautions wherever I go.”

The statement makes the trio glance among themselves, as the tension grows. Not exactly what any of them had hoped to hear.  
“That sounds dangerous”, Tay comments.

“It is, but don’t concern yourselves with that. It’s my problem.”  
She mentally resets her stance and turns to the argonian.  
“Maak-Veh, it’s good to see you again. I wasn’t sure at first if this woman was telling the truth, but when I spotted you, I knew it could be no lie.”

Maak inclines his head respectfully.  
“And you as well, priestess. It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed, though I wish we met under better circumstances. Who are your companions?”

Instead of letting him speak for her, Jollain smiles and lifts her hand in greeting.  
“The name’s Jollain. I was recruited last year.”

“From where?”

“The Imperial City. It’s…ugh, a long story, but I’ve gotten used to Vvardenfell by now.”

Tay, on the other hand, bows her head to show respect as well.  
“It’s an honor to meet a priestess. I am Tayerise and I’m also from Balmora.”

Mehra tilts her head curiously.  
“Oh, you’re not an outlander? I didn’t know Caius recruited more natives.”

“Of course, though I’m mostly with them because of Jollain.  
I’ve always had much admiration for the Temple, especially as priests tutored me when I was younger.”

Mehra watches Tay quietly, but there’s some unknown hesitation before she responds.  
“That’s…good to hear.”

“Hey”, Jollain starts, “you mind if we ask you how you know him? And for how long?”

The priestess walks over to the wall and places her books on the floor. They have a thin piece of cloth wrapped around them, in order to be protected from potential damage.  
“For almost as long as he has been on Vvardenfell, I think.  
He wasn’t always in Balmora. The first few years, he went back and forth a lot, spent quite a bit of time in Vivec. He used to visit the library in the Hall of Wisdom every now and then, which is how we met.”

“And he just…started talking to you?”

“Well, yes. At first it was to ask where to find various books, but eventually he inquired about recommendations and even my views. We realized that we shared opinions on the Temple, agreed on what good it offers, but also how we both believe that the Ordinators and the Tribunal are failing on other aspects. It’s becoming quite dangerous for Morrowind’s political stability.  
He eventually offered me a place among your Order, when he believed he could trust me, but I turned him down. Back then, it was because I thought I could do more good by simply being a contact in the Temple.”  
She shuts her eyes and exhales from her nose.  
“Now…I don’t know.”

Jollain raises a hand and scratches the back of her head.  
“Well uh, if there’s anything we can do for you, we could give it a try.”

Mehra shakes her head and resumes her previous gaze, removing some of the doubt.  
“There’s nothing specific you can do right now. However, I want to know why you’re here.”

The spy trio scours the area with their senses, looking, smelling and listening for potential spectators, but can detect nothing at this time.  
“Right, well, Caius sent us here to ask about a few specific topics, actually. He wants to know what you have to say about the Nerevarine cult and the Nerevarine prophecy.”

As she is a member of the Temple, they had obviously expected her to be surprised, which she is, but she doesn’t look disgusted or appalled. All they notice from her is curiosity.  
“Caius wants to know about the Nerevarine? Why?”

Jollain shrugs.  
“Didn’t say. He just told us to go to you for information. He wants us to bring some back.”

Mehra lifts a hand to stroke her chin in thought.  
“Hmm. Well, I do know a few things about this entity, yes, but it’s a little bit of an unusual topic, especially for imperial agents.  
If you give me a day or two, I could write down what I have on the subject in a scroll.”

“That sounds agreeable”, says Maak. “However, he also insisted that you tell us verbally, as a safeguard.”

“Oh, very well. I hope you don’t mind a theological history lesson.”

Jollain takes a deep breath, folds her arms and leans back against the wall.  
“Not like we have much choice, right? Whenever you’re ready, sera.”

Tay walks a bit closer too.  
“I am very intrigued about this myself, so you have my full attention, muthsera.”

Mehra corrects her hair and directs her eyes to the ground, as she mentally organizes her knowledge of what they need to know.  
“The Nerevarine cult is a section of Ashlander beliefs, most associated with one of the smaller tribes – Urshilaku. I don’t know much about them or their customs, but I do know of the Nerevarine, as I have studied old documents and interviewed former members.”  
She opens her mouth to continue, but then halts before she gets that far.  
“Oh, wait. Do you know what the Nerevarine is?”

“Uh…yeah, a little”, Jollain confirms. “Reincarnation of Nerevar, right?”

“Correct, though this cult believes in a very specific version of the old lord. They say that the Nerevarine will appear specifically to honor ancient promises, to reestablish Prophet Veloth’s teachings, cast down the Tribunal Temple, drive out all outlanders and bring back the Tribal Law. Though, I have to say that I’m not sure how widespread this belief is among Ashlanders overall.”

Jollain glances at her girlfriend.  
“Tay, you got any clue?”

The warrior scratches her cheek and shrugs.  
“I was too young to be part of such discussions, but from what my father told me, Ahemmusa never put much stock in the Nerevarine.”

Her statement has Mehra quite intrigued.  
“Oh. You’re an Ashlander?”

“Yes. Or rather, I used to be. Haven’t lived in any tribe for quite a while.”

“Ah, I see. I’ve met a few former nomads like you, in various cities.  
At any rate, the Nerevarine-“

“Whoa whoa whoa”, says Jollain, interrupting her. “Hold on, I’ve got a question. Who’s Veloth?”

Mehra blinks confusedly at first, before she understands the problem.  
“Oh, right, you’re an outlander.  
Veloth is the name of the ancient prophet who led the chimer people from the lands of the altmer to Morrowind – or Resdayn as it was known at the time – on a great pilgrimage, before we were known as dunmer. He led our people away from the worship of the aedra and towards the daedra. Specifically, he convinced them to venerate the ‘Good Daedra’ – Boethiah, Azura and Mephala. Veloth taught the people to live simple lives, away from the decadence of the altmer, which he believed corrupted those of the Summerset Isles.  
After his death, the dunmer people gradually began to split into two – the nomads and what eventually became the six Great Houses. Both were tribes and fairly equal, just that the latter were settled. However, all of this changed with the Tribunal’s arrival. The nomads were pushed aside, fell behind and were left as the poor and the ostracized.”

This is more history than both Jollain and Maak have heard before, as they haven’t spent many days studying such ancient history. The argonian is probably a little bit more familiar with it, though.  
Jollain slowly shakes her head.  
“You know, I still don’t really get the whole daedra thing. Tay told me about them, but it’s weird that anyone would worship them.”

“Well, that might be because you’re from Cyrodiil, but the imperials have misunderstood the purpose and the mindsets of the daedra, at least those we know as the Good. They taught our people many valuable lessons.”

“Most tribes still continue the tradition to this day”, says Tay. “The majority of them revere both the Good Daedra and the ancestors.”

“Indeed”, Mehra concurs. “And in many ways, the Tribunal represents the same trinity, simply with slightly different ideals.  
If we go back to your main topic, the Temple honors Nerevar as a Saint. He was the greatest dunmer General, the First Councilor and companion to the Tribunal. He united the dunmer to destroy the dwemer, cast out the nord invaders and defeat the treacherous House Dagoth.  
The Ashlanders, on the other hand, say that Nerevar not only did some of this, but he also promised the tribes that he would venerate the Good Daedra, the ancestors and the Tribal Law. They believe he will come again, to honor his promise. The Temple will be destroyed, they say, and the Empire will be driven out.  
He was the Great Khan to them, Hortator – warleader – to the house mer, but at the same time respected the customs of all tribes. Nerevar swore upon his Ring of Ancestors, One-Clan-Under-Moon-And-Star, that he would be the bridge between both sides of their people. Once they defeated their enemies, all would be set right.”

“Except it wasn’t, I guess”, Jollain comments. “Wouldn’t be ancient lore unless there’s something bad happening, right?”

Mehra nods slowly.  
“You are wiser than you think. Many old tales end with bloodshed, destruction or betrayal.  
According to the Ashlanders, Vivec, Almalexia and Sotha Sil betrayed Nerevar after the battles against their enemies and slew him in secret, set themselves up as gods and broke the promise to the tribes.  
To the Nerevarine cult, the reincarnation of Nerevar is a return to the golden age, where equality between nomads and houses existed.”

It’s somewhat amusing to Jollain to be talking about something like this, for surely it would be horrendous heresy if anyone outside were to find out that Mehra speaks such words. At the same time, she senses some trepidation in herself.  
“Dunno how I feel about all that. I mean, drive out all the outlanders? I’m one and while I totally get that they don’t want the Empire controlling them, couldn’t those of us who wanna live here still do so?”

Mehra tilts her head sideways, back and forth.  
“An understandable viewpoint, but I don’t think you need to worry. Personally, I have never viewed it as more than mythology, a legend of the past.  
In fact, I find the whole persecution of the cult very peculiar. It is so small and insignificant, seen as no more than a superstition by most people across Morrowind. And yet, the Tribunal puts so much effort into snuffing out even the most minor presence within their cities.”

“Yeah, we heard about uh…how some people have disappeared.”

“The False Incarnates, you mean? That is what the previous attempted reincarnations are officially called. The Tribunal thinks it’s foolish, but the Ashlanders still see the existence of these people as proof that the prophecy is valid, rather than a contradiction, despite their failure. It’s…bizarre.  
The last incarnate was one only known as ‘Peakstar’. She was a young girl that some believed could fulfill the prophecy some 30 years ago. Sadly, she simply disappeared into the ash wastes one day. I suppose her fate was probably more merciful than being taken into the Ministry of Truth.”

The very mentioning of the name makes Jollain shiver slightly, as she doesn’t really want to think about that.  
“Yeah, that’s-…anyway, what about the prophecy?”

Mehra lowers her gaze to the ground and begins to slowly pace around them.  
“Which one? There are so many, some more important than others. For a lot of them, I only know the name.  
Due to the fact that Ashlanders don’t often keep written records, knowledge of prophecies and lore are sometimes forgotten, which is something their Wise Women complain about. It’s the carelessness and ineptitude of earlier generations, they say.”

“If they’re forgotten, how do these people know they existed at all?"

“Like I said, their names remain, but not the contents. ‘The Lost Prophecies’, ‘the Seven Curses’ and ‘the Seven Visions of the Seven Trials of the Incarnate’ are some of the more famous titles. No idea if they can be found elsewhere.  
Ashlander Wise Women believe highly in the importance of dreams and visions, you see, which they think has much to do with the prophecy. This is in stark contrast with the Temple and the Nine Divines church, who see such matters as simple superstition.”

The one who still remains the most alert in the group is Maak, who constantly looks around as soon as he hears a slight noise elsewhere. So far, he can’t detect anyone else, but he also tries to maintain awareness of the discussion.  
“Is there any prophecy you do know, then?”

“One, yes. It is known as ‘The Stranger’ Quite a common tale, actually.”

“Mm, I’ve heard about it”, Tay admits. “Don’t know the words, though.”

Mehra stops wandering and corrects her robes, pulling them a bit tighter around herself. The sewer air is getting to her somewhat.  
“The text is rather obscure, like most prophecies. I can relay it to you, if you prefer.”  
She waits to receive a few nods, before she proceeds, speaking in a more formal tone.  
“’When earth is sundered, and skies choked black,  
And sleepers serve the seven curses,  
To the hearth there comes a stranger,  
Journeyed far ‘neath moon and star.

Though stark-born to sire uncertain,  
His aspect marks his certain fate.  
Wicked stalk him, righteous curse him.  
Prophets speak, but all deny.

Many trials make manifest,  
The stranger’s fate, the curses’ bane.  
Many touchstones try the stranger.  
Many fall, but one remains.”

The words linger in silence for a short while, as the trio ponders what they’re told. It is Jollain who decides to reveal her thoughts first.  
“Well, can’t say I know much what any of that means, but one thing does sound obvious to me – they’re looking for a man.”

“Ah, that’s not necessarily true”, says Mehra. “Some texts and prophecies use masculine pronouns for the Nerevarine merely because Nerevar was a man. The identity of the Nerevarine is unknown and it could be anyone. Like I said, Peakstar was a woman and none of the Ashlanders seemed to question that.”

“You do know a lot about this subject, muthsera”, Tay comments. “Do the Temple really let you study all of this?”

This is where the priestess hesitates, and she scratches her nose as a sign of doubt.  
“Not…entirely, no. Like I said, I have spoken with some Ashlanders, but…I have also read the Progress of Truth in the library. I would show it to you, but it is held in a restricted area of the Hall of Wisdom. The Ordinators would stop us if we went there, potentially even arrest you for trespassing.”

Jollain widens her eyes.  
“Whoa, okay. Maybe don’t do that, yeah. What is that book, though?”

“It’s written by the Dissident Priests, a group that disputes Temple doctrine. It is outlawed, but kept in the restricted section of the library out of historical value. We aren’t supposed to read it without permission from higher authority, but…” she stops and squirms slightly. “I took a peek once or twice. I also know that a few booksellers keep hidden copies around somewhere, for reasons of profit or principles. I suggest you get one for Caius later, while I’m writing my notes regarding the cult.”

“We shall”, Maak confirms, “but now I’m curious about the book and these ‘Dissident Priests’ too. Could you give us some details?”

Mehra takes a deep breath, resummoning facts that she has tried to memorize quite well.  
“I know about points that they challenge the most and I can relay this information.  
There are eight points – the Divinity of the Tribunal; the purity of the Tribunal; the Temple’s accounts of the battle at the Red Mountain; the veneration of daedra, saints and ancestors; denial of the Nerevarine Prophecy; authority of Ordinators; torture by Ordinators; and the fundamentals of Temple doctrine.  
The last four probably speak for themselves – the dissidents merely believe that Ordinators and the higherups of the Temple hierarchy have grown too much in love with power and authority, which they’ve begun to misuse. They have started inquisitions and gruesome torture of prisoners, which they hide away in the Ministry of Truth. This obviously involves the False Incarnates, but also includes other ‘heresies’ and even political opponents. They forget our true purpose – charity for the poor, education for the ignorant and protection for the weak.”

“I can’t say they’re wrong”, says Tay and diverts her eyes to the side. “I…have thought in similar paths myself, in recent years.”

Her comment makes some interest shimmer through Mehra’s copper eyes.  
“You’re not alone.  
The other four points are related to the core of the Tribunal’s gifts, as well as Nerevar and House Dagoth, including Dagoth Ur.”

Jollain arches her eyebrow in a confused manner.  
“Dagoth…Ur? Who’s that?”

“Dagoth Ur is the very core of evil in the Tribunal faith. He is the one true betrayer, according to them, who slew Nerevar. You know of the Red Mountain, yes?”

“Well, I mean…yeah, it’s kinda hard not to. It’s seen from everywhere.”

“Exactly. Have you seen the Ghostfence in the Ashlands?”

“Uh, no, don’t think so. Except for Ald’ruhn, I haven’t been close to that area. What is it?”

“The Great Ghost Fence is a magical shield wall that was erected at the foot of the Red Mountain, in order to keep the evil of Dagoth Ur contained, including his twisted creatures. It is maintained by the power of the Tribunal.  
It is said he resides in there, constantly trying to get out and battle the Tribunal to the death. He truly awakened sometime prior to the Empire’s arrival, but before that, the Tribunal had made many pilgrimages to the mountain.”  
She crosses her arms and considers one fact that she isn’t sure whether she should mention or not. Then again, they did want to know everything.  
“There are…certain rumors across Vvardenfell which say that a secret cult of Dagoth worshippers have recently arisen in hopes of finding a way to open the Ghostfence up. I don’t really know the truth of such claims.”

Jollain and Tay immediately look at each other, being reminded of the ‘Sixth House smugglers’.  
“Right”, says the former. “And what does this have to do with the dissidents?”

“Temple doctrine claims that apotheosis – their way of becoming gods – was miraculously achieved through questing, virtue, knowledge, testing and the battling of evil of all kinds. It was a communal judgment by the dunmer ancestors – Veloth, the Good Daedra and Saint Nerevar.  
The Dissident Priests have begun to question this story. They ask whether Dagoth Ur’s power and the Tribunal may actually derive from the same source – the Red Mountain. Their constant old pilgrimages to it would certainly be one way to see where this doubt came from. Some sources claim that they used enchanted tools to achieve godhood, created by the ungodly dwemer sorcerer Kagrenac, in ages past.”

Tay moves a hand up to her mouth.  
“That’s…no, that can’t be true. That would be…”

The warrior seems somewhat overwhelmed by it all, likely doubtful. Speaking such words is obviously heresy and Jollain feels for her, which is why she takes one of her girlfriend’s hands.  
“Continue, Milo.”

Mehra clears her throat, wondering if she offended Tay. She is a priestess, but she doesn’t wish to hurt her people either.  
“Are you…certain that you want to hear more?”

Jollain looks up at her girlfriend and Tay has to take a shaky breath before she nods.  
“…go ahead.”

“Very well. The second point is about the purity and truths. The Dissidents say that texts in the Temple are divided into two sides – public and hidden writings. The former put the Tribunal up as heroes of the people, while the latter hides truths, secrets and inconsistencies.  
One such is the conflicting reports of the battle at the Red Mountain, how they conducted themselves and that apotheosis was not achieved in the manner that they claim. They have also been concealing the true threat of Dagoth Ur.”

“The battle at Red Mountain…you mentioned that before. What’s so conflicting about it?”

“That’s their third point. You see, the history of the Ashlanders directly contradict what the Tribunal claims. All three have said that they were definitely present, that they aided in the fighting against the enemies that Nerevar destroyed. However, Ashlander tradition states that the dwemer actually destroyed themselves, rather than being wiped out by Nerevar.  
Temple history explains that Dagoth Ur betrayed Nerevar and the Hortator died of his wounds in the arms of the Grand Council. Ashlander tradition claims that Nerevar left the tools of Kagrenac with Ur, to guard them, while he went to confer with his council. They slew him and then stole the tools from Ur, before they drove him beneath the Red Mountain.”

Maak furrows his brow and folds his arm.  
“Hmm, they do speak against each other. Then again, both are merely history and none of us were there, so we cannot say which is true.”

“That…is a good point, yes, but it doesn’t necessarily make the Tribunal correct.  
Either way, the dissidents do not challenge the heroism and the sainthood of the Three, only their divinity. They advocate for restoring many elements of fundamentalist ancestor worship, but they are unsure how this would be achieved.”

Jollain glances sideways at her girlfriend again, to make sure that Tay is alright, but her expression is ambiguous. The Tribunal is quite important to her and she obviously doesn’t know what to say here, especially as a priestess is telling them all this.  
“I…think this is a lot to take in”, Jollain admits. “We’ll try to get this book you spoke of, while you fix our notes, to see if we can investigate.”

“Do so. I hope you might come to some interesting conclusions as well.”  
The group is about to leave after this, as all has been said, but Mehra reaches out first.  
“Wait, before you go.” They all look at her, but this makes her somewhat indecisive and she appears reluctant to say more. Then again, she may not have a choice.  
“I…I am worried. I have read the Progress of Truth and I believe some of the Ordinators know this. I think they’re watching me.  
When you return to Caius, could you please tell him to search in our agreed spot if something were to happen? Take the codeword – Amaya. He will know what it means.”

“We will tell him”, Maak confirms. “If you prefer, we could send someone to look out for you.”

Mehra quickly shakes her head, not even considering it.  
“No, that’s not necessary. It will be too dangerous anyhow.  
I will take care of myself, but you should be careful as well. The Ordinators are everywhere nowadays, so your group should stay out of the public eye more than usual. Good luck.”

Jollain nods.  
“You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For those who have played the game, a lot of this info was probably familiar, as it's told in the in-game story. I felt like I needed to have some of that stuff here, specifically because it helps to explain more about the situation._   
>  _That said, in the game, this information is split over like, 4-5 characters, but that would've been very tedious in this particular fic, so I gave it all to Mehra. Oh, and some was also given to Tayerise in "As the moon rises" (like the stuff about the Sixth House)._


	7. Falsely extended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you remember one of the early plots of "As the moon rises", with Jollain's first Thieves Guild heist, this one is connected to that._

Afternoon in the city of Balmora, the commercial district. An important event is transpiring in this very section, out in the open, and yet the rather large crowds that visit the stalls and stores seem completely oblivious. Not that anyone had expected them to notice, especially not in the chaos that occur here every day. People buy, sell and trade their goods for various reasons and acquiring these items is of more interest than watching the shadows.

This is the ‘richer’ or ‘elite’ side of Balmora, although compared to extravagance and disparity between the classes among the Redorans and Telvanni, this city is almost equal. Most houses are not ridiculously larger than those from Labor Town and only a river really separates them.  
Perhaps that’s why it’s so easy for someone like Habasi to simply put on some different clothes as a disguise, and she practically blends in.

The local Thieves Guild leader is walking in the middle of the commercial district and she is not alone either. The khajiit is joined by none other than Dram Bero, a nobleman and one of the Grand Council members of House Hlaalu.  
For many months, ever since the Guild stole compromising documents from Camonna Tong, they’ve been ‘negotiating’ with House Hlaalu, regarding how business should be conducted.

Naturally, the Guild wants better terms in the city and potential trade agreements with the House. In the messages they’ve sent, they’ve reassured Hlaalu that they would be ‘far more agreeable than the scoundrels of the Tong’.  
So far, the majority of Hlaalu’s Council has refused to listen and ignored them, despite the threats of exposing dangerous secrets. The motives are usually split between refusing to work with criminals and being loyal to Camonna. Fortunately, that is changing.

The first of the Council to step up and show that he’s willing to consider an alliance was Dram Bero, who contacted them and promised to listen.  
It’s not that his intentions are noble - no more than the Guild’s, anyhow - but he has been very wary of the actions of his fellow members, that they would trade with Camonna. As he would prefer to maintain his reputation and potentially create some new allies, he agreed to meet.

Meeting in the open while wearing disguises was actually a trick that they hoped would make the entire thing less discernable. Who would assume that a House Hlaalu Council member would walk unguarded next to the Thieves Guild? It was too obvious, or so they hoped. Sneaking around in Labor Town would look suspicious if they were found out and they couldn’t tell if anyone was watching his home, which is why he didn’t invite them there either. The market appeared to be a decent middle ground.

Sadly, Camonna Tong is not quite as gullible, and it can easily see through such schemes. There’s virtually nothing in Balmora that Orvas Dren and his people don’t know about, and this just happens to be another aspect of that fact.  
Dram and Habasi wander around together, sort of moving back and forth across the streets with their robes and hats on, to conceal their appearances. They speak in hushed tones, but they are not disregarded.

During this process, several sets of eyes are spying on them from a distance, watching every movement. It’s an entire group of Camonna members who follow them carefully, walking behind the vendors and hiding in alleyways. At the right moment, with the guards nowhere nearby, they brandish their weapons and advance on the duo, hoping to shut them in an efficient pincer move. That does not end up being entirely successful.

Before the Tong members get within range, most of them are intercepted by another set of criminals that were hiding in the shadows, leaping down from rooftops and running out from backdoors – the Thieves Guild. Naturally, they were waiting all along for this exact occurrence. While the city guard had not been notified of the meeting, Habasi wasn’t going to remain this exposed without some kind of insurance.

There have not been many altercations in Balmora for quite a while, certainly not on the elite side of the river. Neither gang wants to expose themselves to the Hlaalu guards, especially as the Guild is usually afraid that the House will end up standing behind the Tong and aid them.  
However, in this particular occasion, the roles are somewhat reversed. Not only do they act to oppose Camonna for their own gains, but to protect a member of the House’s leadership.  
As violence breaks out, with weapons clashing, fists colliding with other body parts and the two gangs curse each other, any civilians nearby immediately scream in fear and run away. This isn’t the first occasion for such a confrontation, but they would prefer to not become collateral damage.

While the majority of Camonna’s troops are stopped at a distance, one single assassin sneaks through the chaos and rushes towards the duo, who has remained in the vicinity.  
Habasi shifts her pose to stand in between the attacker and the Council member, but this isn’t necessary. Suddenly, another woman jumps down from the roof and blocks the blade with one of her own.  
This woman’s copper hair flutters in the wind and her brown gaze stares at her attacker. However, upon closer inspection, her eyes suddenly widen as she recognizes the long straight black-red hair, the thick beard and the dark grey skin.

“Areval?”

The man furrows his brow and his red eyes bore right into her.  
“…Jollain”, he says, with disdain in his voice.

She hesitates, but he does not and immediately commences their duel. While she wields two short swords, the dunmer has a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. He directs the latter at her chest, in an attempt to trick her, so the sword can strike at her flank. Luckily, Jollain is too well-trained and experienced at this point to fall for such simple deceptions and she deflects both, before she kicks him back.

Their weapons have not clashed in quite a few months, not since that fateful night on the streets of Labor Town. This time, Areval does not outnumber Jollain, but that doesn’t stop him from doing his best against her anyway. He doesn’t necessarily attempt to kill her, but simply knock her aside, so he can focus his full destructive force on his real targets. Fortunately, Jollain has had even more time to perfect her skills under Maak-Veh’s tutelage, and her level now not only matches his, but actually outperforms him. It appears her education has been very effective.

Areval may have struck the first blow, but Jollain is slowly and skillfully pushing him back. She doesn’t even go for any specific attacks, but instead deflects and parries every shot. Despite this fact, he is still the one who retreats.  
While he focuses on not getting overwhelmed, she takes every stray second to gaze at him, trying to survey his reactions. Perhaps she can talk to him.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Areval? Do you realize that you’re trying to kill a member of the Hlaalu Council?”

He sneers at her after he takes a step back and tries to find a way to circle around her, but she doesn’t give him the chance.  
“Of course I fucking know! Do you think I’m completely blind?”

She spreads her arms into a shrug.  
“Well, it does make me wonder!  
Last time I got you out of prison, it was because you killed a member of my Guild. And, by the way, I still don’t feel good about that. But killing a Hlaalu Councilman? You realize they’d lock you up forever, don’t you? You’d be completely fucked.”

“You really think I’d try to get captured?!”

“You really think you’d be able to get away?”

With a brief battle shout, he charges straight into her, hoping to instill himself with some courage and that she might be taken aback by a quick show of prowess. He realizes now that he can’t really kill her, but that’s not his goal anyway. He only needs her to make a small mistake and he can get to his prize. Habasi has yet to depart the area with Dram, likely to avoid ambushes elsewhere. At least here, she is assisted by both the Guild and the Hlaalu Guard that is closing in on their position.

Fortunately, the harder Areval pushes, the sturdier Jollain’s defenses seem to grow. She does not falter, she doesn’t make mistakes and even if he’s clearly stronger, she’s faster and more precise. If there’s a hit she can’t block outright, she ducks and then punches him in the side or the abdomen, or kicks at his legs. Either way, he’s weakened and has to maintain distance. The whole procedure only increases his rage.

“Get out of my way! This isn’t your business, n’wah.”

He directs a sidelong slash at her, which she blocks and then twists around to elbow him in the gut, making him stumble away but retain his foothold.  
“Actually, I think you’ll find that it fucking is, since this is _my_ guild. Also, I have a name.”

He wipes away the saliva that was dribbling out of his mouth, while he glares at her.  
“You’re still an outlander, no matter what you say.”

As the noise of the guards is now getting closer and closer, he attempts to look around for a desperate solution. Seeing a small food stand nearby, he runs over to it. Jollain doesn’t know what he plans, but she follows him, trying to maintain her stance as an obstacle. That’s when he grabs ahold of one end of the stand and flips it towards her. Jollain gasps and quickly makes a sidestep, closer to the wall, to avoid being hit.

This was the distraction he needed, and he immediately continues running on the opposite side of this mess. She notices this development and glares after him.  
“Oh no you don’t!”

This is when she manages to display some acrobatic skills. She quickly regains her speed and instead of simply leaping over the tables in her path, she jumps up and puts her feet on the wall, using it to launch herself towards him, which means that she collides with him in the air and knocks him to the ground. As she ends up on top, she can easily roll around and get back on her feet, blades still held ready for battle.

Areval gets up with much less grace and spits on the ground.  
“You are a bloody nuisance, do you know that?”

She displays a small smirk.  
“Mhm, it’s kinda my thing.”

“Why won’t you just leave us alone?!”

“I guess that’s just not in the nature of outlander scum like me”, she says, with an added wink at the end.

As their duel is resumed, she doesn’t need to see his facial expression to guess his emotional state. It seems to infuriate him that he can’t defeat her, that she’s somehow better than him. Even if this might be because of what Jollain is, she somehow figures that there has to be more behind it.  
Sure, he may dislike outlanders, but some of it likely derives from what she has done in the past, what sort of position she has seized in his life and the deeds she has performed. There can be no other explanation why he’s always so furious around her.

“What do you think Tayerise will say if she finds out that you’re doing something like this?”, she asks. “She’d be disappointed, don’t you think?”

He takes a step back to catch his breath, and there’s a certain indication in his eyes that he’s starting to believe defeat is the only outcome available here.  
“You think I care about her opinion?”

“Don’t you?”

“She betrayed us! Betrayed her family!”

“Because she has other emotions than hate?”

He advances on her again, with a determined stride. Since she’s not actually trying to kill him, he attempts to disarm her this time, but such measures appear to be rather futile too. She’s still much quicker.  
“It doesn’t matter, alright? I’m still doing this, no matter what she thinks.”

“What, so you don’t care about Tay at all anymore?” She receives no response, other than a physical reaction on his face that shows hesitation.  
“Didn’t think so.”

In a last desperate act, he throws himself onto her, slashing widely in her direction, which is the least useful thing he has done thus far. She analyzes his stance and movements, and when she has enough information, she can predict them. With two swift maneuvers, she disarms him and lets his blades to fall to the ground, so she can kick them away. Unfortunately, he has one more short sword on him, which he unsheathes.

The sight of it all makes her exhale audibly.  
“Will you just stop this already? You’ve lost, Arry.”

“What, getting tired, n’wah?”

An ironic statement, seeing as how he’s the one who’s panting the heaviest.  
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not! I don’t want to kill someone from my family, you idiot.”

Areval’s frown suddenly deepens and he clenches his weapon so hard that his hand begins to shake.  
“You are _not_ my family.”

“I am, whether you like it or not, asshole.”

He is just about to make one last attempt against her, but she has had enough, deciding that this fight is over. She drops one of her weapons and sparks of lightning appear within her grasp instead. Seeing as how he’s not quick enough to defend against it anymore, she fires at his weapon hand, disarming him once more and then delivers a jump kick to his chest. He stumbles back into a house wall and this is when she sees how exhausted he truly is. He barely even manages to remain standing without some effort.

At this point, Jollain could take him in. She could have him arrested, hand him over to either the Hlaalu guards or even the Legion and they would probably relish the opportunity…but she can’t do it. Instead, she lets him go.  
As Areval starts to run, he yells over his shoulder.  
“Watch yourself, Bero! Camonna does not forget traitors!”

Dram frowns back at him and points in Areval’s direction.  
“I am not with your group of hooligans, you s’wit!”

By the time the guards arrive, Areval is already around the corner of another building, disappearing out of sight. Some of his Camonna squad, not all, have evaporated with him.  
Seeing no other choice, the Hlaalu guards advance on Jollain and the other Guild members.  
“Drop your weapons! No fighting is allowed on Balmora’s streets!”

Jollain glares at them and holds her swords up, not willing to surrender to them. There are three of them and she may be kinda tired, but she’s not going to give herself up to be imprisoned.  
Luckily, Dram reveals his identity and interferes.  
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Stop that immediately! These people protected me against those criminals. You are not to arrest any of them, do you understand?”

The guards glance at one another, seeming skeptical, but then bows their heads towards him.  
“…yes, muthsera. We apologize for the misunderstanding.”

During the slight break, Habasi approaches her protégé and puts a hand on the bosmer’s shoulder.  
“You okay?”

All Jollain can do is watch the road where she last saw her beloved’s brother. She wonders if this is how every meeting will go.  
“I dunno.”


	8. Incarnate

Jollain hasn’t actually allowed herself to say it, but she’s been enjoying her time in the Blades a lot more lately. Ever since she and Tayerise finally hooked up, and the warrior joined the same little secret club, the shadows have not felt as devastating. It’s not like she was alone before, as she still had Maak-Veh, Habasi and the members of the Thieves Guild to support her, but it’s not quite the same as having Tay around. That dunmer is…special to her, able to create emotions of joy and security in Jollain by just being nearby. Some might say it’s because Jollain is in love, but she thinks it’s the opposite; it’s because she feels like this that she fell for Tay to begin with.

This is why late evening meetings with Caius are not such chore or an inconvenience anymore. Okay, they might still be, but at least this sometimes mean spending more time with Tay and that’s always a welcoming prospect, especially tonight.  
Tay has recently come back after having performed a mission for the Fighters Guild to the south and the two of them meet outside their apartment.

It’s been at least a couple of weeks since Caius told them to leave for Vivec and after returning, he simply accepted the material they gathered and informed them that he’d study it all. Despite their questions, he has still refused to give them a reason for why he needed it, but Jollain didn’t mind. In fact, after that last meeting, she pushed all of it out of her head, felt like it wouldn’t be a concern anymore. If he wants to keep it a secret, who cares? As long as it doesn’t bother her again.

What does bother her, however, is seeing Tay’s state when she gets back. The warrior looks pretty tired, with heavy bags under her eyes and her shoulders are somewhat slumped. She rode on Amnet for hours, enough so that she wouldn’t have to spend the night on the road and what happens? She gets called in for an important spy gathering, one that apparently couldn’t wait until the next day.

Upon arrival, Jollain starts by hugging her girlfriend tightly, showing that she’s available for comfort. Tay is still wearing her travelling clothes, which are a bit sweaty, but Jollain doesn’t care.  
Afterwards, the bosmer takes one of Tay’s hands and kisses the back of it.  
“You okay, cutie?”

Tay allows her to do so, but uses her free hand to rub her own eyes, while she sighs heavily.  
“I’ve felt better, but I’ll survive.”

That’s what she’s always like – ready to push herself, despite severe protests from her body. It’s what she did in Camonna and it’s what she continues to do now, for the Empire.  
“You sure you wanna go?”

She shrugs in response.  
“I don’t see that I have a choice.”

Jollain smiles up at her and tilts her head to the side.  
“Well, if Caius asks, I can always tell him to fuck off.”

Despite the fatigue and some slight irritation, Tay can’t help but giggle as she hears it, shortly before embracing her girlfriend. She rewards Jollain with a gentle kiss.  
“I think that’s one of the things I love about you the most – you don’t even know what ‘deference’ means.”

The thief grins back at her, while slowly caressing her cheek.  
“Hey, he knows who he hired when I came here.”

In the end, both of them decide to go anyway and once they arrive at the spymaster’s house, they are not alone. Caius is sitting by his table, of course, but Maak is also there, pacing next to one of the walls. Interestingly, there’s a troubled look on his face for some reason and his tail drifts back and forth in an agitated fashion.  
Before they have a chance to ask, Caius gestures at them.

“Please, come closer and lock the door. We have some important matters to discuss.”

While Tay performs the latter, Jollain approaches the weapon master, placing a hand on his shoulder.  
“How are you doing, Maak? You look kinda nervous. Boss man didn’t give you the raise you wanted or something?”

As per usual, Maak is not particularly impressed with her humor, but there’s also something else in his eyes when he looks at her. Is that worry?  
“Not quite, but something similar.”

She had been in a slightly good mood until this comment, which is now twisted into suspicion instead.  
“Erm, okay. Is there something I should know about?”

“There is, but I believe it would be best if Caius tells you.”

Jollain wouldn’t say she dislikes Caius. In fact, she thinks he’s pretty decent for a boss, something she hasn’t truly had until she came to Vvardenfell. That said, she still trusts Maak more. Not only do they spend quite a lot of time together – either on missions or training sessions – but they also sort of understand each other. Maak may be a grumpy guy, but he shows her respect and the two of them can cooperate to reach their goal very well by now. They have their own system of signs and gestures, and it isn’t hard for her to understand his emotional state. This is why she now turns to Caius with even more skepticism.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Caius has his eyes locked with hers, but he's is not quite there, his gaze being miles away from their current location. It takes a moment for him to shake his head and return to the present.  
“How are you doing, Jollain? Nothing different as of late?”

Dodging the question, huh? Doesn’t make her feel any safer.  
“Uh…not really. I mean, I had some pretty nice fried fish for dinner earlier. Maak helped me catch ‘em a few days ago.”

Maak inclines his head.  
“You did well.”

Caius snorts and shakes his head, although he does appear somewhat amused.  
“Not quite what I meant, but it doesn’t matter. It is good to hear that you haven’t changed yet.”

“…yet?”

“Jollain, Tayerise, do you remember the information you gathered about the Nerevarine?”

Now that’s a word neither of them has heard since they last stood in this messy little apartment. Part of Jollain kinda hoped it would never be spoken again. She doesn’t need crazy religious conflicts interfering with her life too.  
“I do”, the bosmer admits. “I remember that you left out any explanation as well, and just kinda brushed our questions aside.”

“I know and it was necessary at that moment. Now, it’s time to talk about it.  
Tell me, what do you think of the stories Mehra told you? I’m talking about both Nerevar and the prophecy.”

Is this some sort of quiz? An interrogation? The elves glance at one another, both of them showing similar emotions of doubt. Best to answer him and see what this game is about.  
Jollain folds her arms and shrugs. While Maak has stopped, she has begun a slow journey around the room, infused with trepidation.  
“Not sure what to say, really. That Nerevar guy sounds pretty cool, I guess, but he lived thousands of years ago, so who can say if any of the stories are true? As for the prophecy…”  
She lifts a hand to scratch her neck.  
“Meh. Sounds kinda like nonsense to me, like any other myth, but I can see why the Ashlanders believe in it. When you’re not treated very well, why wouldn’t you wanna believe in a legend that will come to save you? That’s not just true here, but in the Imperial City too. How many beggars, peasants and thieves don’t pray to the Nine, hoping that the Divines will rescue them from misery? It never happens.”

The room is somewhat silenced by her little speech for a few seconds, until Caius breaks it by clearing his throat.  
“A…cynical view, but I suppose I have come to expect that from you. I won’t dispute that this may be the case.” He makes no further comment before he looks towards Tay. “And you?”

Tay hesitates before she says anything, biting at her lower lip. She looks somewhat awkward, perhaps due to what Jollain just revealed.  
“I…don’t know. I obviously believe that Nerevar was a good man, that he was worthy of becoming a Saint. I have always had a bit of knowledge about what Ashlanders claim happened at the Red Mountain, but I never knew if I trusted any of it. Personally, I chose to believe that Nerevar was an ally to the Tribunal and that his death wasn’t their fault. Now…” She lowers her eyes and shrugs, an aura of defeat surrounding her. “I don’t know anymore. I have tried to consider the truth, but it’s so difficult.  
As for the prophecy, well…that’s even harder. It has gone thousands of years and it seems kind of strange to me that he wouldn’t have reincarnated sooner. Then again, maybe the right one simply hasn’t shown themselves? It did sound like the truth of who the Nerevarine is supposed to be is still completely unknown.  
What concerns me more than prophecy, is the Tribunal and the Dissident Priests. What Mehra told me was…worrying; frightening, even. I don’t know how to feel about it.”

Caius nods slowly, in a knowing fashion.  
“It’s definitely troubling and I have discussed such matters with Mehra before. However, that’s not the issue here, nor why I’ve called you.”  
Finally, he rises from his seat, starting to pace around, but he doesn’t look at any of them.  
“For the last few months, I have been investigating a few specific subjects – the Nerevarine, Nerevar, the Tribunal and the Sixth House.”

His revelation momentarily pauses the meeting, bringing a measure of astonishment to the others.  
“Wait, what?”, asks Jollain. “You’ve been-…but if that’s the case, then why in Oblivion did you send us to Vivec? Wasn’t that unnecessary?”

“Yes and no. It might seem that way to you, but I was ordered to do so.”

“By who?”

Caius stops next to the shutters of his window and opens them slightly, just to make sure that no one is out there. He closes them afterwards.  
“A few weeks after Tayerise was recruited, I received a letter. It was signed by Emperor Uriel himself.  
In it, he told me to conduct this investigation and to involve your group once I knew more about what we were dealing with. I hadn’t actually asked for Mehra’s knowledge yet, which is why it was crucial that your group took care of it – I would get more intel regarding the mission and you would also be informed about the topics at hand.”

Once he turns around, he waits to receive a reaction. The trio all appear rather confused. Perhaps not so much that Caius would get a message from the Emperor, but due to their inclusion in it.  
“Hold on. You’re telling us that the Emperor himself told you to bring us into this? The three of us?”

“Yes.”

She narrows her eyes and folds her arms.  
“I don’t believe it.”

He shrugs rather casually.  
“Well, it’s the truth.”

“Why?”

Caius takes a deep breath and raises a finger to accentuate what he’s about to say next.  
“Well, that is the dilemma. You see, for quite a long time, Uriel has been a man of…divergent beliefs. He puts certain stock in visions, signs and the supernatural interfering with life in more ways than what many in the Divines church would have us believe.”

Jollain tilts her head skeptically.  
“Uh, sounds kinda like some of those rumors about him being a heretic is true, then?”

Caius now changes the direction of his finger, pointing it at her instead. It’s only a slight warning.  
“Hey, I don’t want to hear you say such things about our Emperor. Yes, he isn’t as close-minded as they are, but he’s not a fool.”

The bosmer raises her hands defensively.  
“Didn’t say he was.”

“Anyhow, the fact of the matter is that the Emperor actually thinks the Nerevarine prophecy might be real. He believes that the trials may be fulfilled by someone in our era and the true incarnate will rise.”  
He takes another moment to gather his thoughts here, to prepare himself for the true revelation, to expose all other veils. He looks directly into her eyes.  
“And the reason you’re here in Vvardenfell, Jollain, is because he thinks you are that possibility. He believes you have a chance of becoming the Nerevarine.”

During her life, which obviously hasn’t lasted for a very long time, Jollain has been told a lot of stuff that she has considered to be lies, or at least highly doubtful at best. That she’s the most beautiful woman on Tamriel, that she’s the best thief in the business, that she’s the sharpest blade in the shadows, that she can always rely on her friends – all bullshit.  
But this? This has to take the prize.

Both Jollain and Tay simply stare at him in shock for several seconds, while Maak takes a deep breath and exhales through his nostrils. He obviously knew this already.  
“What…the fuck…did you just say?”

“You heard me the first time.”

Jollain diverts her eyes to the wall, letting them move around searchingly. She finds herself practically lost for words.  
“I…I just…” She stops and runs a hand over her face. Get your shit together, Jollain. He’s obviously messing with you.  
“Wait, you’re kidding me, right? You’re saying that the _Emperor of Tamriel_ , believes that _I_ am the Nerevarine?”

Caius, however, does not smile or even shift his expression. He simply stares at her.  
“Correct.”

Not knowing how in Oblivion she’s supposed to react, Jollain tilts her head back and begins to laugh. She keeps going for several seconds, running her hands over her face as she tries to come to terms with it, hoping that he’ll eventually break and reveal the truth. He doesn’t.  
She points at him, still laughing slightly, but it’s sort of in a mocking fashion now.  
“Fuck you.”

His expression alters, letting him furrow his brow and appear more serious.  
“This isn’t a joke, Jollain."

“Oh, c’mon, it has to be!”

“Whether you agree or not, this is why Uriel transferred you here.”

“Stop it, Caius. You know this is bullshit. There’s just no way.”

While the others remain silent, not wanting to intrude nor knowing what to say, Caius moves closer to Jollain.  
“Didn’t you ever feel it was peculiar that the Emperor himself sent you, a simple thief on the streets of the capital, to Morrowind?”

She doesn’t really want to look at him, doesn’t want to offer him the chance to build some kind of hope or suspicion in her, but she does decide to at least glance in his direction.  
“I mean, yeah, but…”

“Then there you have it.”

She raises her hand to protest.  
“Hold the fuck on! There’s just a _tiny_ bit of difference between a weird situation and being some sort of prophesized hero!”

He nods briefly.  
“Yes, I know. I understand your concern here-“

“Concern?!” She closes the distance even further, now standing right in front of him as she glares up at him. She’s still shorter than everyone else in here.  
“This is fucking crazy, Caius! I’m _not_ the Nerevarine! Do you hear me?!”

It is getting a little too tense for him and he takes a step back to lift his arms in a hopefully calming fashion.  
“Alright, let’s settle down, shall we? I have my doubts as well.”

“Then why are you going along with this?!”

He sighs and puts his hands together in front of him, trying to find the best way to describe his own personal dilemma.  
“You know what? I’ve been skeptical ever since I read that note. I was very unsure about the truth and even questioned whether the Emperor was being serious. In fact, I was on the verge of sending a letter back, to explain that this was simply too implausible.  
However, Uriel has always had a certain knack for the unknown, to see things that others are blind towards. In his youth, some monks of the Divines believed he could be a prophet of some kind or a seer. It was an aspect that they hid away, but he has always embraced his instincts.  
Either way, it doesn’t matter what you or I believe – Uriel’s word is law and we must follow his orders.”

This is of course something that Caius has told her since the very beginning and she hasn’t really questioned any of it. She got paid and did what she was asked. This, however, is going too far.  
“That’s not fair! And besides, why does the Emperor – a man from Cyrodiil – even care about the superstitions of another province anyway? Why does it matter?”

“Because this isn’t just about the beliefs of the Ashlanders or the Great Houses. In his letter, Uriel explained that he is concerned about the increasing instability of Morrowind.  
The Tribunal are disappearing from the public eye, the Great Houses are bickering, imperial officials are being murdered by hidden assassins, the violence in the underworld is increasing, the Tenth Dusk was almost able to conduct a mission to blow up a Legion fort and much more. A lot of events are mounting up across this land, and something must arrive to bring balance.  
Uriel believes that the rise of the Nerevarine might be a way to provide such stability, which will put the people behind a set of beliefs that can unify them.”

Naturally, Jollain won’t dispute the fact that a lot of crap is happening, nor that it worries her, but she thinks there’s a limit.  
“But…haven’t you heard about the prophecy? Mehra told us that the Nerevarine is supposed to chase out the ‘invaders’ from Morrowind. You know, the Empire?  
Not only that, in case you hadn’t noticed – I’m an outlander!”, she shouts and lifts her hands in the air. “How the fuck am I supposed to be their hero?”

He crosses his arms and leans back against the nearby wall.  
“Actually, if you truly look into the information, that is only a belief of the Ashlanders. There is nothing in what we have seen which explicitly states that the Nerevarine _has_ to be a native. No one really knows who the Nerevarine is and the Emperor believes you have the greatest potential.”

“Why? I was just some street kid. Where the fuck did he get the idea that I’d be more suitable than anyone else?”

“Well, look at what you already have. You are likely born on a certain day – the start of the birthsign of the Shadow – you don’t know your parents and your origins are both humble and questionable. That is at least a slight indication and better than many others.”

Jollain buries her face in her hands.  
“That’s ridiculous! You know how many people on the streets of the Imperial city don’t know about their parents? I knew dozens!”

“I haven’t said it is a sure thing, only that you have the potential.”

It does sound like Jollain won’t be able to argue this fact, at the very least. It is true that she is one of the potential incarnates, even if she highly doubts her chances.  
When she considers this matter further, there’s another angle that annoys her.  
“You know what I think? It kinda sounds like the Emperor is using me for his own benefit. I’m a thief, a nobody, and he can easily throw my life away at a whim. Who cares if I die? No one.”

If she had hoped to make Caius feel guilty, she does succeed with that at least. She also hears another voice from behind.  
“…I would care.”

Jollain glances over her shoulder, seeing Tay look at her with affectionate eyes. That the dunmer is on her side is the only reason she hasn’t completely collapsed right now, and she does feel at least somewhat encouraged by the comment.  
“I can’t answer that, Jollain”, says Caius, “but I understand your feelings. This can’t be easy.”

While the bosmer appears utterly miserable at this prospect, Tay and Maak are in more ambiguous positions. They don’t quite know how to respond to it, as they aren’t exactly as targeted. That said, they’ll still have to be involved.  
“So, what exactly is the mission?”, Tay asks. “How would we go about fulfilling a prophecy just like that?”

Caius inclines his head and moves over to his table, where he has placed a bunch of books, scrolls and notes.  
“Well, that’s actually easier to deal with. Your current task would be to seek out the tribe Mehra mentioned, the Urshilaku, since they follow the Nerevarine cult. They will know more about Jollain’s chances for succeeding with the prophecy.”

Tay nods slowly and runs a hand over her cheeks.  
“Ah, I see. I do know that tribe, but not their location. I have heard they hail from somewhere in the north, though. I’m also not very knowledgeable about their customs.”

Whatever their mission is supposed to be, Jollain seems to have stopped listening. She shakes her head and walks away from all of them, towards a solitary spot in the apartment.  
“This is stupid. There’s no way I’m the Nerevarine and you want me to ridicule myself in front of Ashlanders? What if they laugh at me? Or worse, threaten me?”

This isn’t an unreasonable conclusion, which is why none of the others immediately dismiss it. Caius himself even seems to consider the prospect for a little while as he browses through the documents in front of him. Eventually, he exhales audibly and gazes at her once more.  
“Look, I respect you, Jollain, and I believe you have done great work for the Blades. Getting rid of you as an agent would, in my opinion, be foolish.  
As a sign of my gratitude and for your valuable service, I would be willing to help you find a way out of this. If you want to hide, I’ll make it happen.”

Not exactly the type of offer she had expected and she looks both surprised and suspicious.  
“What? Are you serious?”

“Very serious. I know this would be very risky, perhaps even deadly, but if you absolutely refuse to pursue this mission, I don’t blame you. I’ve been in this business for a long time and can definitely find some way to hide you in a corner of Tamriel, perhaps by faking your death. I’ve done it before, in the name of the Blades.”

To fake her death? That sounds…very drastic. She won’t deny that disappearing and forgetting that this conversation ever happened is very tempting, practically something that she’s willing to accept without hesitation, but she quickly realizes how stupid that is.  
“What, to live in the shadows for the rest of my life and constantly look over my shoulder? To keep a blade under my pillow every night and hope that other agents don’t track me down?”  
She shakes her head.  
“Fuck it. Let’s just get into this madness and indulge the Emperor’s delusions, I guess. Once the Ashlanders tell us I’m not the Nerevarine, maybe he’ll get off my back.”

He doesn’t outright say it, but Caius does look relieved.  
“For what it’s worth, I do believe in you.”

She holds up a hand in his direction, not wanting to hear more. She turns to Tay instead.  
“So, how exactly would we get to these Urshilaku?”

Tay clears her throat somewhat awkwardly.  
“Well, I don’t actually know the way, but…my father does.”

Jollain arches her brow in a doubtful manner.  
“And…you think he’d be okay with talking to us about that?”

“If we ask him nicely, yes.”

“Alright, guess he’s our best hope. Let’s go visit the ol’ farm.”


	9. Treasured myths

The otherwise rather quiet surroundings of the farm belonging to Uryne and Falsabit is interrupted this day by visitors. The sight of Tayerise and her girlfriend is not a new one for the married couple, although obviously an unexpected one. Ever since the confrontation from months back, the relationship between the parents and the spy couple has been…inconclusive at best. Despite initial distaste, the old man has started to soften up to Jollain, even if he has a hard time to acknowledge it.

With a bit of effort, Falsabit stands up from his seat in his home and grabs his cane. When the two women arrived, he was sitting at his workbench and prepared some new leather gear to craft. As it appears he forgot some tools, he starts striding over the floor to another side of the room. The lights from the candles in this area illuminate his appearance, showing his medium grey skin, his long greying black hair in a short ponytail, his simple clothes and the wooden leg that is currently attached to him with the aid of leather straps, helping him stay steady.

Tay and Jollain were seated on two other chairs, but the younger dunmer now rises.  
“Father, let me help-“

He interrupts her with a dismissive wave of his hand.  
“Sit down, child. I can bloody well take care of myself, at least when it comes to walking across a room.”  
His comment isn’t admonishing, just a bit annoyed. He has never wanted to be seen as completely helpless.  
“Anyway, what was that you said? You want to find the Urshilaku?”

With a somewhat hesitant expression, Tay sits down again.  
“Yes, the camp. Do you know where it might be?”

He stops by another table and some boxes lying on top. While leaning against the table, he opens the container and checks that it has all he needs.  
“I do, but I don’t see why you’d want to speak with them.”

Tay and Jollain share an uncertain gaze, before the latter clears her throat and speaks up.  
“Uh, we’ve got some…business to deal with, related to them.”

“What, for the Fighters Guild? Or is this about the Thieves Guild? Either way, what could they possibly want with Ashlanders?”

“It’s probably for the best that you don’t know.”

Falsabit glances in her direction, before he snorts.  
“You’re probably right.” He focuses his eyes on the tools once more, pulling some of them out to place on the table.  
“If you must know, I am aware of Urshilaku’s location, yes. I haven’t visited them myself, but we’ve met on other places. Their camp is quite far from the rest of the tribes, but the closest one would still be my former home, Ahemmusa.”

He sounds pretty sure when he says it, which is somewhat encouraging.  
“Where do they go?”, Jollain asks.

“They tend to wander between the northeastern sections of the West Gash, and the northern lands of what you know as the ‘Ashlands’. You have to go east of the village of Khuul, but north of the town of Maar Gan. Urshilaku tend to occasionally visit either of those settlements for trade.”

Jollain nods slowly, seeming quite satisfied that they’ve at least got some type of direction. However, this is soon interwoven with a certain amount of skepticism.  
“Well, that is good information, but like…uh, how long has it been since you were with Ahemmusa? Decades, right?”

He shrugs casually.  
“Something like that.”

“Couldn’t their routes have changed since then? That’s quite a long time.”

Falsabit seems just as confident when he shakes his head next, shortly before he grabs the tools he picked out and returns to his seat, with the help of his cane. It is a somewhat slow process, but he seems to be fine with working in his own pace.  
“You don’t understand how traditional Ashlanders are, Jollain. My people are the ones who still venerate the old ways, the Ancestors and the Good Daedra. The routes they use are ancient traditions, ones that you don’t discard so easily. It can take several generations before anyone even suggests going anywhere else, and it must be a damn good reason for abandoning those roads. They are homes to the tribes, similarly to how you may feel about Balmora.”

Jollain listens to him with interest. She hasn’t heard much about the Ashlanders, outside of what Tay has said and the warrior was very young at the time.  
“Huh. That must take a lot of dedication; I respect that. Must’ve been hard for you to leave it all behind.”

The old man sits down on his chair around the time that she makes this comment and his shoulders slump in reaction, while he emits a slow sigh.  
“You have no idea.”

“Father”, says Tay, “you never spoke much to me about the customs of other tribes. Do you know anything regarding the Urshilaku ones? Anything we must know if we have to deal with them?”

“The same way one deals with any Ashlanders, mostly.”

“Well uh, we would be grateful if you explain it. Jollain doesn’t know a lot about such rules and you describe it better than I do.”

Falsabit looks at them skeptically, but he soon concedes to the point. With a short exhale, he places his cane on the side of the desk and detaches his wooden leg. After it’s all gone, he gets comfortable and prepares his tools. He begins by placing a big piece of tanned leather that he’s going to cut up and work on.  
“Alright. First of all, it’s probably best to know that Ashlanders generally dislike outlanders.”

Jollain lifts a hand to correct her hair, while she diverts her eyes.  
“…yeah, I had noticed.”

He stops for a moment to look in her direction.  
“I…know how our first encounters ended, but I have at least grown to respect you, Jollain, because I chose to listen. They will not show you the same generosity to begin with.  
Many Ashlanders wish that all foreigners leave Morrowind and take their false gods with them, or at the very least, leave the tribes in peace.”

“That…is reasonable, I guess. Would they attack us?”

“No, at least not if you’re unarmed. Attacking an unarmed person is shameful, even outlanders, unless you have offended them. If you do offend their clan or their laws, they will not hesitate to kill you. The tribes are not foolish enough to wage war on outlanders, as they are very aware of how powerful the Empire is. However, if one such war could be started and won, they might be willing to give their lives for victory – it is what we did against the nords long ago.”

They watch how, after he has cut what he needs into a suitable shape, he begins to prepare some holes.  
“There’s also a lot of courtesy involved”, he continues. “The homes that they live in are called ‘yurts’. One may not enter a yurt without an invitation. If you do, the reaction differs between the tribes, but usually, you might be forgiven if you leave when requested.  
If the tribe has guar or other pets, you should not approach unless the herder allows it.  
It is permitted to ask a hunter if you may join them, but if they decline and you enter the same hunting grounds, they will take offense.  
One should also be careful around the Ashkhan and the Wise Woman. Some are welcoming, others are very very hostile.”  
He stops for a moment to examine his memories.  
“If I recall correctly, I believe…Sul-Matuul was the latest Ashkhan of the Urshilaku and Nibani Maesa was the Wise Woman. I have not heard from them in years and I don’t know if this has changed. If they remain, then you should be glad – they are skeptical of outsiders, but still fairly reasonable.”

“Tell her about fighting too, just so she knows”, says Tay.

“Ah, yes”, Falsabit agrees, as he lifts his leather slices and inspects the holes, blowing through a few of them. “Fighting among Ashlanders can depend on the matter. For sport, it is acceptable to decline a duel. If it’s a matter of honor, however, it is very shameful to decline.”  
He stops for a moment to consider what he has told them. They see how he furrows his brow slightly and puts down the leather.  
“You should probably keep in mind that the Urshilaku are quite unusual, even in the eyes of other Ashlanders. They believe in something called the ‘Nerevarine’, an ancient legend. Most of our people don’t think it’s true, but this tribe does.”

When he mentions this, both of the women hesitate, while looking at each other. Perhaps it was inevitable that he’d get into this.  
“Uh, you don’t either?”, asks Jollain.

He simply snorts, almost derisively.  
“I believe there are lots of superstitions, even among my people.” Before he resumes his task, he glances towards them again. “What is it you want with them? Is there something you need from their tribe? I doubt they have goods you can’t acquire elsewhere.”

They would have preferred to remain silent about this topic, but after giving them so much info, perhaps it’s only fair that he hears a little bit.  
“Well, we…are actually going to meet with them to ask about the Nerevarine cult”, Tay admits. “We can’t tell you why, but we have to know.”

Falsabit views both of them with confused eyes.  
“Really? That is strange and stupid, if you need to travel all that way to ask about him. The Nerevarine is just nonsense, a fairytale. The ‘cult’ as you call it, are foolishly living in a fantasy. They believe that ‘glory’ will return, that we will have everything the stories told us!”  
He chuckles and shakes his head, returning to his work.  
“They are fools. The Nerevarine is merely a myth.”  


* * *

  
It is late evening as the duo returns to Balmora, after having spent a couple of hours at the farm. At this time, the streets are fairly empty, as one might expect and only the two moons, along with a few torches here and there, illuminate most corners. That’s not to say there are no people at all – it’s easy to assume that creatures of the night roam somewhere in the shadows, as they always tend to do. Wouldn’t be Balmora otherwise.

While they’ve been talking about the matter a bit on and off during the journey, it has been silent between Jollain and Tayerise for the last few minutes. The subject that they’re currently dealing with is a lot to take in and Jollain is obviously nervous. Tay, on the other hand, doesn’t know exactly how to react. She roams somewhere in between excitement and fear. What will happen if it’s true? Will their lives change in any way?

During the silent stroll, Jollain senses something in the darkness, like a feeling that slowly creeps up over her neck. It’s the same one that she sometimes receives when she assumes she’s being watched. She decides to turn around and gaze into the shadows, but she can’t detect anything in particular.  
“You okay?”, Tay asks, after having noticed the act.

After a moment or two, Jollain shrugs it off as paranoia, before she continues to walk.  
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just…confused, I suppose. I don’t know what to think right now.  
This whole Nerevarine crap is nonsense. I mean, there’s obviously no way I can be that person. I’m a nobody. It’s stupid that Caius even wants to try.”

Tay watches while she listens and fidgets with her hands somewhat. She looks down to the ground before she responds.  
“Well…nothing is impossible”, she mumbles.

The comment definitely doesn’t pass Jollain by and she quickly redirects a skeptical gaze towards her girlfriend.  
“Uh, pretty sure some things are. Like, neither of us are gonna start flying through the air anytime soon.”

“You can’t compare those two things. This is completely different.”

“Yeah, but-“ She stops walking and holds up a hand. “Hold on, are you saying that you actually believe I’m the one they’re looking for?”

Tay takes a few extra steps forward and doesn’t turn around until she’s a few meters away. At that point, she hesitantly bites her lower lip.  
“I…didn’t say that. But I don’t think it’s impossible.”

Jollain exhales and shuts her eyes.  
“Tay, please…stop it. It _is_ impossible and it’s ridiculous.”

“Why? Why would you have to be some kind of important person? Nerevar wasn’t before he rose either, you know.”

“Pretty sure he wasn’t a thief.  
Tay, I need to know that you’re not gonna start pushing me towards this, that you’re on my side.”

It’s clearly preferable that they work together and do not argue too much, but unfortunately, Tay can’t quite return that favor. She folds her arms and diverts her eyes to the sight of the river nearby.  
“I don’t really know what I believe anymore. Before we spoke to Mehra, I was more certain, but…things are changing. Whether it’s true or not, I do think we should give it a chance. The possibility is…interesting.”

In spite of how adversely Jollain feels against this, she doesn’t want to be as harsh to her girlfriend as she was with Caius. She cares more about Tay and her beliefs.  
“Fine. You’re free to believe that, but personally, I hope they tell me I’m not.”

They continue through the city after this, walking over the bridge to Labor Town. To not leave them at such an unfortunate point, Tay decides to switch topics.  
“I think we should prepare some more, before we leave. We still need to purchase more food and some extra clothes. It’s not always wise to light fires in the Ashlands, so bringing a bag of dried food might be a good idea. Also, protective gear like scarves, hoods and robes. The ash storms are much worse out there, than they are anywhere else.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true. Guess we can check the market in the morning.”

By this point, they’ve begun to wander through the streets of Labor Town, and the rest of the city disappears behind them. However, before they can actually reach their home, they hear another voice originating from one of the nearby alleyways.  
“Some say that, to traverse the Ashlands, it might be wise to also bring another pair of eyes.”

The sound startles both of the women and while they quickly swirl around, they place their hands on their weapons in the same move. It seems Jollain’s hunch wasn’t wrong – they were being followed.  
Luckily, the slight accent in the voice is actually familiar and another woman wearing dark robes, with a tail poking out from one of the gaps, steps out from the shadows. Jollain is the first to recognize the grey-furred individual.

“What the-…Vaziri? Uh, why were you following us?”

The khajiit reveals herself a bit further now, putting her hands together under her sleeves.  
“You were in the middle of a conversation and I did not wish to interfere.  
What you said was certainly interesting, though. To discuss heresy in the middle of the street is not a good idea.”

“…we were practically whispering”, Tay points out.

Vaziri tilts her head with an amused expression.  
“I have sharp ears”, she says, and they twitch slightly afterwards.

“What do you want?”, Jollain asks.

“Well, I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t exceptionally curious about your discussion. You are going into the Ashlands to pursue a legend? Why?”

The couple shares another gaze, realizing how inconvenient this just became.  
“We…uh, it’s because of some stuff we’re dealing with.”

“I hope you won’t attempt to lie and say it is for the Thieves Guild’s benefit again.”

“…not if you’re not gonna buy it.”

Eventually, Tay frowns and takes a step forward, pointing at the khajiit.  
“This isn’t any of your business. We don’t have to tell you.”

A slight bit of playfulness shimmers through Vaziri’s eyes and she strides even closer.  
“Oh, but I believe it is now. I know that you are going after this legend and I cannot simply discard such knowledge.”

Tay’s sharp expression deepens. She hasn’t let go of her weapon’s hilt just yet and the grasp around it now tightens.  
“What will you do with that information?”

“Oh, nothing specific. Not if you grant my request.”

“What request?”, asks Jollain.

“If you are going to the north and aim to pursue this mission of yours, then I want a place on your journey.”

Now that was the last thing they expected to hear tonight. Vaziri has shown a weird interest in Jollain for quite a while, but to travel with them into the Ashlands and risk her own safety? The bosmer doesn’t even know what to say in response. Tay is almost as confused.  
“What?”, the dunmer asks. “That’s ludicrous. I have only met you once or twice and I definitely don’t trust you enough with something this important.”

“But I have met with sera Jollain on multiple occasions and I am the one who has tutored her, helped her hone her magic skills. On top of this, I have saved her life on two occasions – one of them from your brother, if I recall correctly. I believe she owes me.”

Tay clenches her fist.  
“This is extortion.”

“Wait”, Jollain tells them and lifts her hands. “She’s right, Tay. She…she has helped us before and technically, she is my teacher.”

Tay stares at her girlfriend, but some of the resistance does evaporate. Jollain has that kind of effect on her.  
“We can’t trust her.”

“You say that, but she’s actually nicer than you think. Besides, if we’re going into the middle of nowhere, wouldn’t another fighter be a good thing? She’s deadly with her spells.”

Slowly and carefully, Tay appears to give in, not wanting to fight either of them in a decision that already seems to be made.  
“…alright, fine. But I’m not okay with this.”

In the meantime, Vaziri smiles brilliantly.  
“Splendid. I shall begin to gather some gear and prepare for departure immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _As you've probably seen from previous meetings with Vaziri, this isn't the first time that she sneaks around and watches Jollain. Her reasons for wanting to join them will have to wait for another time, though._   
>  _And yeah, while there is an Ashlander informant in the game, Falsabit was much more suitable for my story._


	10. Eyes of infinity

_Heat. Darkness. Dust. Terror._  
_She has returned. Yet again, she can’t remember where or how she got here, why she would be taken into this accursed lair, but it is repeated, whether against her will or with full endorsement. She finds herself trapped in the body of whatever creature this is, sealed in ancient hallways of an unidentified facility._

 _The winds of warmth that flows through these corridors is omnipresent, washing over her like judgmental waves. For whatever reason, she can endure them this time, strangely enough. It’s almost as if she has adapted to these surroundings, but can’t recall such a process._  
_She raises her hands and is just about to touch her face, when she stops and winces. She has a suspicion of what she looks like, but doesn’t dare to inspect. It’s better if the answer remains vague, as she would prefer not to creep herself out. Must retain composure, at all costs._

_Compared to her last visit, she can actually walk at least fairly normal this time. Well, her feet do drag somewhat over the floor as she traverses the path ahead, but they also stride with much more purpose, as if she has a goal. What that goal is, she can’t say, because she can’t do anything to alter destination. Her body has seemingly decided where she’s going and she’s only along for the ride. For now, she’s fine with this choice._

_The immediate question is uncomplex – is this really her or another being altogether? Can she actually affect the fate of this journey in any way, or is she merely present in order to witness some type of event or object? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. She feels like it should, and yet she’s bizarrely apathetic. Some hidden sensation, deep below the surface, tells her to seek the answer to all quandaries and while she does wish to entertain that desire, another part convinces her to simply forget and let go. Let yourself be commanded. Isn’t it more comforting that way?_

_Along her stroll through the shadowy passages, she spots many more figures, perhaps the denizens of this lair. Most of them are hunched and clothed in dark robes, concealing their appearance. Her vision is better than on the previous visit, but still obscured enough to not give her the full picture._  
_The sight of these people worries her. Were they, like her, sent here somehow? Are they trapped without any means of comprehending liberation? Are they even sentient creatures at all or wayward spirits of some kind?_  
_Is any of this real?_

_Whatever the unveiled truth might be, everyone appears to be similarly driven as she, having destinations that they must reach, a purpose she can’t discern. She has to push such inquiries aside, for they cannot matter to her. Even if she yearned to find the answer, no one would offer any. She’s not confident that her body is capable of asking. The concept of a voice was a mere fantasy last time and she can’t imagine that it’s different now. Best to resign herself to defeat, before disappointment overtakes her._

_As her thoughts begin to stray, a familiar element approaches. A voice enters her mind, echoing in heavy tunes, but unlike its previous intrusion, it is not debilitating._  
_“Come, child of the awakened. Join me in the sleeper chamber. There is work to be done.”_

 _Both she and the host of this entity has to cease the journey for a moment. The whole body vibrates with every word, like the world itself commands them. It was definitely more of an order than a request._  
_While she would prefer to ignore it, to prevent herself from seeing him again, there is no choice – her body is already taking her in a new direction. Submission is absolute._

_While she does her best to succumb to the reality of her circumstances, she spots several more robed individuals following her own body, aiming for the same corridor. Interestingly, this does not include everyone – others move towards opposite sections of these caverns, with varying degrees of resolve. Do any of them have free will or are they all forced to labor and struggle? Why does she even care? They should be faceless to her._

_The new area she arrives in is a much larger room, with rows upon rows of thick stone slabs, shaped in a long rectangular fashion. On a majority of them, she can see people lying on top, unconscious and unmoving. A few are naked, others are clothed to various degrees, but the most blatant aspect is the fact that almost all are dunmer._  
_Some of the robed entities stand at the side of these people and perform something on them. They draw upon shadowed and forgotten magic, which they then insert into the sleepers, warping their appearance._  
_Suddenly, they transform, their skin changing and mutating. The level of this shift differs – some gain a third eye, while other eyes disappear completely, being replaced by a gaping hole. A third batch gain the same protruding growth, like a snout or a worm, from the upper region on their faces, the same thing she felt on her previous arrival. Her mind shivers._

_“There are many rooms in the house of the Master. All are welcome, to gain ascension and delivery.”_

_Is this invitation aimed specifically at her, or is this merely a panoramic proposal for all those who inhabit this place? Either way, personally, she’d reject whatever gifts these people receive._  
_Then again, is choice even a factor in this equation? Have all of these people accepted an invitation or are they, like her, helpless spectators, forced to endure their own demise with an eerie sense of concession?_

 _All other thoughts are soon replaced by one. In the distance, she spots his form again. He’s standing on the far side of the room, surrounded by a small crowd of the robed entities that envelop him. His almost-naked state, his thin body, the golden mask – all of it remains intact. From this angle, she can at least determine that he’s taller than pretty much all other inhabitants._  
_She can’t really distinguish who or what he’s supposed to be, though. There is an inclination for the answer in the depths of her mind, but does she dare to acknowledge this fact?_

_While it was difficult to examine him before, everything has changed. Her eyes are not obstructed at this time and for some obscure reason, it’s almost as if her gaze welcomes his visage. He has an aura around him, a pleasant glow that draws all attention and care from anyone who even stands in his vicinity. Deep inside, she believes this is unnerving and discouraging, and yet her body apparently relishes the opportunity to view him in all his splendor._

_“Be easy, for from the hands of your enemies, I have delivered you.”_

_His sentences continue to wriggle their way into her private locations, intruding upon the seclusion, and yet she can’t see his body move or indicate this fact whatsoever. Is this even him talking or does it derive from another source?_  
_And who are these ‘enemies’ meant to be anyway? Why would this man, this creature, be a more welcoming prospect to her than anyone else? She certainly doesn’t feel like he is, but bizarrely enough, it’s like she’s supposed to do. Any other interpretation instinctively feels wrong._

 _When she gets closer, there are too many people standing in her path for her to properly get any kind of view of what lies in front of the golden-masked man. She is only one of many and cannot expect to be given special treatment._  
_Or that is what she initially and falsely assumes. Shortly after she arrives at the back of the crowd, their host turns directly towards her and he gestures to the rest with a simple flick of his hand for them to move aside. They obey him without protest._

 _A path opens for her and without gaining any kind of order, she senses that she is expected to step forth. Who is she to question his wisdom?_  
_She does as she’s told, so to speak, proceeding to the front of the gathered thralls. She arrives at the other side of another stone slab, but this one is different from the rest. She can see how the corners are lined with an array of candles that are lit, their fires burning in alternating colors – red, gold, brown, purple and green._

_On top of the altar lies a body, not all too large in comparison to the stone construction. It’s completely wrapped in a thick layer of black cloth, with a red mark sewed into it. She immediately remembers that she has seen this symbol before – it is the same one that was apparently carved into the bodies of assassinated imperials. Words of the Legate reverberate through her head and her own reaction is to gasp. The creature she rides within does not follow._

_The man gestures at the body and she feel that she should continue, to unwrap the figure, almost as if it is given to her like some type of gift. She complies without any outwardly question._  
_The vision that appears before her makes her internally wince – it is her own, her real body. Jollain is lying on the stone slab, unconscious and dressed in a neat set of grey robes. How is this even possible? Why would she be both here and within this creature at the same time? Is she dead? Is this someone else that she’s simply experiencing this event as? Answers are not afforded someone like her._

_“Gaze now, upon the awakening of Nerevar. Our brother shall join our revolution. Elation eternal for all.”_

_The golden-masked man moves his fingers towards Jollain and after he touches her arm, the body on the altar starts to glow. A second ago, it had seemed dead, but rather abruptly it now begins to breathe. She studies the appearance, waiting to see what will occur and spots something further up – a third eye grows in between the original two._  
_Suddenly, simultaneously, they fly open and display the red light that burns within them. As it takes a deep breath, the world fills with fire._  


* * *

  
With a much lighter gasp than her previous shock, Jollain awakens. She rises into a sitting position and inhales sharply, internally trying to ascertain whether she’s doing so on her own or if she’s still held in the mental snare of her falsely benevolent host.  
An immediate difference this time is the fact that she doesn’t feel utterly astonished or disgusted. She is definitely uncertain and confused, perhaps even disoriented, but not on the verge of throwing up.

She makes sure to check her surroundings and her body. Yeah, this is definitely her, as all parts seem to be there.  
When her eyes drift to the other side of the bed, she finds a rather comforting sight – the naked body of her beloved girlfriend, Tayerise. The dunmer is lying on her stomach, one hand under the pillow, while her head is turned in Jollain’s direction. There’s a serene look on her face.

The couple bought fur-lined sheets not too long ago and from this view, it looks very nice lying on top of Tay, when she’s so relaxed and peaceful. It actually has a calming effect on the bosmer, who feels no desire to wake Tay up and disturb her. Jollain can handle this on her own.  
As a smile returns to her lips, soothing previous concerns, she slides closer. She reaches out and lets her fingertips brush against the black hair and the shaved parts on the side. This style is one that she has always found very attractive on Tay. It hasn’t been a constant presence, but the warrior appears to return to it rather often.

While Jollain is ready to lie down and snuggle into Tay’s arms, to resume her rest, another sensation interrupts her. It is as if something prods her mind and all her internal alarms scream – she’s being watched.  
She sits up and her head swirls around, turning to the door. Almost as if reacting to this choice, she hears scurrying outside the exit. Is someone out there?

Quickly and quietly leaping out of her bed, Jollain grabs a towel from a box next to the wall and wraps it around her. She rushes to the door as swiftly as she can, unlocks it and peers out into darkness of the streets.  
Her eyes do not have a hard time to adjust to the night, due to her connection, which gives her the chance to spot figures in the distance. Unfortunately, she only sees their shadows disappearing into alleyways a couple of hundred meters away. She could rush after them, but she’s not going to capture them in only a towel.

With a heavy sigh, she surrenders and lets this oddity remain nothing but a minor concern. Hopefully, this was no more than a coincidence.  
Her eyes drift up to the heavens, to the sight of Masser and Secunda being almost fully visible in the clear sky. There’s no real explanation for it that she can detect, but their presence actually manages to calm her nerves. She supposes that they’ve always had that effect on her, as one who roams in the night.

The sole peculiar element tonight is their aura. For a moment, while she looks at them, she gets the feeling that they gaze back, glinting a bit extra in response.


	11. A word given

The journey to the Ashlands is approaching its commencement. Gear, nourishment, appropriate knowledge and determination have all been gathered for the trip and the time to meet has arrived.  
Maak-Veh, Jollain, Tayerise and Vaziri are all standing in the outskirts of Balmora, wearing travelling equipment, bags and either scarfs or hoods to protect themselves from what’s coming. Weapons are strapped to their belts or backs too – Jollain carries her swords, Tay has her two-handed axe, Maak holds a spear and Vaziri…well, she has herself and her mind.

While one could claim they’re ready to go, it’s not quite that simple. The women seem prepared to depart, but Maak is currently staring rather skeptically at Vaziri, his tail whipping from side to side.  
“Why am I always the last one to find out about these developments?”, he asks.

From one point of view, that is a legitimate question, as Jollain doesn’t always tell him everything that happens to her. On the other hand, she could say the same thing. This is why she frowns and folds her arms.  
“Hey, that’s not fair! Caius told you the purpose of all this nonsense way before me, despite the fact that it was about me!”

“That is different, for an entirely separate subject. I never hid that from you, Caius did. And this right here is still the kind of addition you should’ve informed me of. I am assigned as the group leader on our journey and therefore need to have all the details.”

“I know, but…it was just a bit of a last-minute decision, okay?”

The street they’re standing in lies behind some houses, within an area where most people rarely go to. This is one type of forgotten road often used by thieves to escape the guards or the occasional children to play, away from their parents.  
At this time, Vaziri is wearing similar clothes as the rest, with a long cloak and hood wrapped around her shoulders. She has the cowl pulled down, which exposes her amused expression and one can also catch the tail further down moving around just like Maak’s, but in a more excited fashion.

“Ser Maak-Veh, your worry is quite unnecessary”, says the khajiit. “I have spent a lot of time around Jollain and I am very capable in a wide variety of situations. I believe our joint student can attest to that.”

While the other two armed people have their weapons sheathed, Maak seems more relaxed when holding his spear. He rests it on his shoulder and slowly rotates it in a contemplative fashion. His yellow eyes turn to watch her and there’s not much elevation needed – they’re about the same height.  
“Yes, I do recall our first encounter, but your reassurance doesn’t really make me any more comfortable. You are still an outsider and no matter how long you’ve known Jollain, this is not a concern we should bring a civilian into.”

Tay snorts.  
“Sounds like we’re on the same page, Maak.”

Vaziri is even more entertained by this.  
“Civilian? That’s certainly an interesting way to categorize my work. Not what most people call it.”

“Would you prefer that I call you an assassin?”, Maak asks with irritation in his voice. “I thought you people wanted to avoid being seen.”

“Or you could say ‘a talented sorcerer’. That is quite an apt description as well, wouldn’t you agree?”

The bosmer and the shortest person of all four, lifts her hands to gain their attention.  
“Hey, why are you guys fighting about this? There’s no point. I trust Vaziri, even if this scenario is kinda iffy. I mean, since we can’t tell her much.  
That said, we’ve spent several months getting to know each other now and Vaziri hasn’t tried to reveal anything about me to anyone else.”

“As far as you know”, Maak points out.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, guess I can’t prove it, but I haven’t been given any reason to doubt her either.  
Besides, like I told Tay already, Vaziri is a capable mage. In fact, she may be more talented than many of those in the Mages Guild, which should be exactly what we need during a long and dangerous trip like this. I don’t see any reason to kick her out.”

The fact that Jollain is on her side does make a difference, since she’s the person they’re helping. Or forcing? It’s hard to say right now, since Jollain isn’t exactly eager to get involved with the prophecy’s many layers.  
Maak maintains a certain level of skepticism when he faces the khajiit again.  
“Why do you even want to travel with us? What’s your interest in this? Did your organization send you?”

Vaziri shakes her head.  
“Not at all. I would be willing to divulge all truths regarding my purpose…but not here.” Her eyes are diverted to their surroundings.  
“Too many potential ears.”

“You’ll only tell us when it’s far too late to turn you away?” He sighs. “How convenient.”

“Turning me away already sounds like an ill-advised choice, now that so much information is in my mind. Not that I would _ever_ relay what I’ve heard, but what if someone tears it from me unwillingly? You never know.”  
The sly hint in her statement is undeniable.

Tay frowns in a very disapproving fashion.  
“…your smugness really is annoying.”

“And I am no fan of anyone having leverage on me”, Maak admits, “but for now, I suppose we don’t have a choice.  
You have my permission to join our journey, but when we get out of Balmora, we’re going to discuss this further. You’re also going to agree to an interview when we get back.”

Vaziri briefly bows her head.  
“That is satisfactory. I have no issues with this outcome.”

Hearing this does appear to calm the argonian somewhat.  
“I guess we can’t discard the fact that the Tong has trained you to defend yourself well enough.”

His comment is likely mean to be slight praise, but the mage arches her brow skeptically.  
“Trained me? Well, they certainly offered me the opportunity to use what I have, but my skills were honed elsewhere.”

“And where was that?”

She tilts her head amusedly.  
“Another time.”

With another heavy exhale from Maak, Jollain decides to interject once more.  
“Well, maybe we should stop wasting time and get going? We’ve got a pretty long road ahead of us and we’re not gonna get any answers here.”

The group of four soon commence their departure from Balmora, walking towards the southern side of the city, so that they can follow a road that leads to the east, before it curves to the north.  
Along the way, Tay begins to explain their route.  
“I suggest that we try to follow the paths outside of the Ashlands for as long as possible, to not expose ourselves to the worst ash storms. We walk up to Caldera, but continue along the West Gash, outside of the territory around Ald’ruhn and stop once we have a straight line to Maar Gan, where we pass into the Ashlands to-“

However, before they actually manage to reach the road and properly start this voyage, they hear another person speaking from one of the nearby alleyways. Her voice is rather deep too.  
“Going somewhere?”

They turn in that direction and spot a very tall and large figure standing inside. At first, some of them are confused, as they don’t recognize the casual clothes and cloak she’s wearing, but her facial appearance removes any doubt.  
“Legate? What are you doing here?”, asks Jollain.

Asta Svalen is resting against the wall of a house with her arms folded and watches them with a neutral and unmoved expression. This was the last person that any of them had expected to face out here.  
“I was looking for you, actually”, she tells them and then pushes herself away, to get closer. “I hope I can steal a few minutes.”

The two elves in the group hesitate, sharing a look with one another.  
“Well…”, Tay starts, but doesn’t finish.

“Uh, can it wait?”, Jollain inquires. “We have some kinda important stuff that-“

“No, it can’t”, Asta insists. “What I have is just as important. Come with me.”

This is not a request, they can determine that much. Despite their uncertainty, the elves begin to pursue her, but they are stopped by Maak, who grabs their shoulders.  
“Legate, mind telling me what’s going on here? Why were you hiding in that alley?”

Asta halts for a moment to glance over her shoulder. She inspects the elves briefly, perhaps looking for answers, but doesn’t wait to receive any. She then nudges her head forward.  
“I will, but not here. Come on.”

Seeing no reason to argue with a high-ranked member of the Imperial Legion, all of them follow as she walks back through the outskirts of Balmora. Interestingly, she tells neither Vaziri nor Maak-Veh to stay away, which is why they join the other two.  
Asta doesn’t stop until she finds another corner for them to hide in, away from prying eyes and ears, which she believes should be safe. That’s when she turns around and refolds her arms, waiting for them to catch up. Her gaze is immediately directed to Jollain and Tay.

“Remember that favor you owe me from a while back? Well, I’m cashing in.”

Two from the group seem a bit reluctant at this notion, while the other duo is quite confused, not really understanding what’s going on for obvious reasons.  
“What?”, asks Jollain. “But…we’ve already helped you once.”

Asta merely shakes her head, dismissing her claims.  
“No, you’ve done work for Caius. You offered a favor to me, which you would perform when I said so, and that is what you’ll do now.”

Jollain clears her throat and glances at Vaziri.  
“Uh, maybe don’t…mention all the details. She’s not with us.”

Asta blinks confusedly and her eyes shifts to the khajiit. This is obviously hard to identify, as Caius has all sorts of people working for him.  
“…then why is she here?”

Vaziri offers a smile in return.  
“I am helping them with a rather delicate matter. You might say they’ve acquired my services.”

Before the discussion can continue in whatever direction Asta meant, Maak interrupts.  
“Wait a minute. What is this all about, Legate? I haven’t heard anything regarding a favor.”

While she feels a pair of eyes boring into her, Jollain doesn’t dare to face her combat trainer. She had obviously hoped to keep this a secret.  
“Uh, it’s…a thing we had.”

“The Legate freed my brother from Moonmoth’s prison”, Tay explains. “In return, we promised to do something for her.”

Due to the timing of it all, there’s no doubt who is to blame, which is why Maak’s glare is completely aimed at Jollain.  
“…what was that I just said about keeping information from me?”

Jollain sighs and her shoulders slump.  
“I know, I know…this looks bad, I get that. In my defen-…okay, it’s not a great excuse, but I forgot about this long ago. Slipped my mind.”

“You’re right, that isn’t a defense. You should have told me when it occurred, long before this even became an issue.”

This has really trapped them in a bind and not just because certain things are revealed at an inopportune time, but because it might obstruct an important assignment. How are they going to solve this without involving Caius and creating more of a mess?  
“Look, can’t we…postpone this, Legate? The mission we have now is like…I mean, we’re talking seriously critical stuff. This isn’t the time for Legion nonsense.”

Asta furrows her brow as she stares at Jollain, tilting her head much closer.  
“It’s the time, when I say it’s the time. You owe _me_ , remember?”

Jollain does her best to stare back at the nord, hoping that she might find some small sliver of hope that Asta could consider standing down, but any such notions are quickly surrendered.  
Instead, she pouts and folds her arms.  
“You’re the worst mom.”

Asta rolls her eyes and then lifts her fingers to flick the bosmer’s nose, producing a sharp stinging sensation.  
“Shut up.”

“Ow!”, Jollain exclaims and clutches her nose. “What was that for?! Rude!”

Tay can’t help but smile slightly at their bickering, before she faces the soldier again.  
“Could you at least explain what type of situation it is that you need us for? Maybe it will be easier to decide.”

“There is nothing to decide”, Asta maintains. “You are coming with me, whether you like it or not. However, I can certainly describe the reason this is so important, which I’m sure will make you understand.  
Our scouts have recently found a golden opportunity to capture none other than Orvas Dren, leader of Camonna Tong. I want your help to make it happen.”

Well, that certainly got their attention. Even Maak and Vaziri show some increased interest now.  
“Are you serious?”, asks Jollain.

“Intriguing”, Vaziri comments.

Maak remains skeptical, but he crosses his arms and preserves his focus on the Legate.  
“We are certainly willing to hear more. Arresting him would be very useful for the general stability of Vvardenfell.”

Asta nods curtly.  
“Yeah, that’s what this plan is about. My agents believe that Orvas is going to meet with a smuggling ship out by a small village down the Bitter Coast. We think the group they’re associating with is the smugglers calling themselves the Sixth House.  
Usually, Orvas is protected by a lot of Camonna members and, indirectly, House Hlaalu. He tends to hide in places where we can’t reach him physically or legally. All of that is different here.  
This time, our information points us towards the fact that he’s not just less sheltered than usual, but he’s also right out in the open. It’s the perfect chance to take him.”

All four submerge themselves in the idea, trying to consider whether or not this would be reasonable. Jollain is the first to give her a direct response.  
“Well, this guy has already caused us a lot of trouble, so I definitely wouldn’t mind taking a stab at ‘im. But do you really need us for this? Like, you’ve got a bunch of soldiers, right? Aren’t they more useful than us? Not sure you’ll accomplish your goal, just cuz we’re there.”

Asta raises her hand to reject the notion.  
“Success rate is irrelevant here, at least as far as your service to me is concerned. The fact that you try is enough.  
You may not necessarily be much better than my soldiers, but your help would still matter. The more people we have, the better our chances. Either way, your debt will be paid off.”

In the group, the one to show the least amount of hesitation is Tay.  
“I don’t have any complaints”, she says. “You helped my brother, so I’ll help you.”

Jollain and Maak still don’t fully know what they should think here, realizing that so much is on the line. Can the business with the Nerevarine really wait or is it all the more vital that they move immediately? Then again, can they really ignore Orvas and his troublesome gang?  
“Very well”, Maak finally gives in. “We will assist. As long as you don’t expect us to wait around, of course.”

Luckily, the officer quickly shakes her head.  
“Not at all. We’ll leave to get into position as soon as your team is ready to move. We have some horses stationed outside the city, which I’ve requisitioned. They’ll take us down there.”

“Phew”, Jollain emits. “Finally a ride without silt striders.”

The only one from the group that actually smiles is Vaziri.  
“I must admit, this is rather exciting. I rarely get to fight so openly, nor against such despicable individuals as Camonna.”

Asta turns to view Vaziri again, eyeing her appearance slowly, as if to analyze her pose.  
“Where exactly did they pick you up?”

The expression on the khajiit grows even further.  
“I have ties into the shadowed traditions of Morrowind.”

It seems like Asta knows exactly what that implies, and she breathes in cautiously.  
“…can’t say I don’t feel a bit uncomfortable, but if I can work with these louts, I can work with you.”

Jollain gasps.  
“Hey! I’m no lout! I prefer ‘street scum’, thank you very much.”


	12. Tangled tales of transgression

The Smuggler’s Coast has long had been a very relevant nickname for the southwestern region of Vvardenfell. While largely known for its many putrid salt marshes, herds of netches and abundance of slaughterfish, the notorious rumors regarding criminal activity has quickly scrubbed many other beliefs. It’s the perfect place for it too, due to the lack of any major settlements, with both the Legion and the House Guards finding little reason to patrol the area to any greater extent and the ragged canopy blocks much of the view.

For those that live there, though, it’s not unusual to hear of the occasional illegal operation, especially when Camonna Tong is involved. The small fishing village known as Hla Oad, in the southwestern corner of the area, has become a recent target for such schemes.  
For most people, this settlement is fairly uninteresting, due to its few services and minuscule trade involvement. Not even the Empire passes by here. The majority of the traffic it sees is from minor merchants that buy fish to sell elsewhere and hunters who either trade or rent their expertise.

As another night begins, figures can be spotted skulking in the shadows, almost fully hidden from the moons’ watchful gazes. Most of the villagers have gone to sleep and their only docking area is left unguarded. This is the perfect opportunity for the gang to act and they do not delay. Wagons are pulled forth by the guar they’re strapped to and the dunmer themselves open the boxes which are going to be filled with goods.

The Camonna Tong has used this village before, as one of the locations within their rather wide smuggling network. They have several places like this across Vvardenfell’s shorelines and certainly not just the Bitter Coast, even if it’s the most appropriate one. It allows them to make abrupt substitutions, whenever the authorities believe they’ve sniffed out another lair.  
Due to the portable nature of this process, it’s very easy to simply prepare everything in a few minutes and then pack it all up when they’re done, leaving no trace. It’s like they were never here.

It's inaccurate to claim that the entire village is oblivious of what is being performed close to their homes, although not every citizen is told the truth. Naturally, they’re incentivized to allow the operations to occur. Occasionally, Camonna leaves payments, usually to the leader of the village. It’s a sign for them to keep quiet and to leave the gang alone. As none of the villagers have to be directly involved or affected in any way, it’s an easy agreement to accept.

Tonight is a somewhat rare occasion. The majority of those who are sent to collect the goods are usually no more than the lowest ranked members, the grunts, along with one or two squad leaders that take care of the negotiating process. It tends to be quick and painless – grab what you need, pay the fee and get out.  
Out of those who wait out here right now, two can easily be discerned as individuals that are far from simple small fry. One is Areval, while the second is none other than Orvas Dren, the Kingpin of the Tong himself.

Areval can’t exactly be described as a crucial component, but he has become one of Orvas’ closest lackeys, a sort of head of street activity around Balmora. He knows how to fight, he’s eager and is generally viewed as a fellow lurker of the shadows. Most of the people below him listens intently to what he has to say, and he listens to Orvas’ orders without question. Well, for the most part, anyway.

This is Areval’s first time actually attending this type of meeting. Okay, he’s been involved with smuggling pickups before, but this particular event is so much more than that. He almost feels nervous.  
Out in the dark waters beyond the small harbor, they see how a relatively medium-sized ship sails towards it and stops not too far from the docked fishing boats. It’s not massive, but definitely bigger than the others, with a larger hold below.

After a minute or so, a plank is lowered, and three individuals wander down along its length with slow and deliberate steps. All of them are dressed in dark robes, being almost completely concealed; not just due to their outfits, but because of the darkness surrounding the area.  
While none of those waiting knows the identities of these specific people, the group’s name has almost become famous – the Sixth House. These smugglers who branded themselves after a long dead entity have been working together with Camonna for quite some time now, but few know the actual structure of this arrangement. Who are they and what is it they want? The rumor goes that they charge less for their services and pay reasonably for any goods they acquire from others.

Areval can sense how the previous rather faint anxiety is building within his chest, the closer that these people get. He looks at his leader, hoping to detect something of a similar nature, but Orvas is pretty undeterred. He’s fairly somber, perhaps, but neither afraid nor unnerved from this angle. Areval wishes he could share his boss’ viewpoint, but there’s just something with this group that makes him…uncomfortable. He can’t quite put his finger on what, though. Is he being a coward or is his body actually trying to tell him something?

He leans closer to their leader and whispers.  
“Are these really them?”

Orvas doesn’t gaze at him when he responds.  
“Yes”, he says in his rather gruff tone.

“Huh. Hadn’t expected them to be so…secretive.”

“It comes with their job, f’lah. Can’t let themselves be discovered.”

Areval scans them, watching how they begin to roll out various cargo that they’re going to drop off, without even so much as a forewarning or a signal to the Tong. Not inherently wrong, just presumptuous in his eyes. Most smugglers tend to at least confirm the status of a port's circumstances, but not these ones. It’s like they assume that everything is already prepared and they’re just performing the expected duty.

He folds his arms and furrows his brow.  
“Hmm. Seems kinda fishy to me that they hide like this. You’re sure they’re trustworthy?”

The older man sighs and glances at his subordinate.  
“Do you doubt me, Areval?”

It’s both a question and a minor reprimand, based on the tone used, making Areval feel just a little more nervous. He manages to restrain himself from swallowing.  
“Well…no, but-“

“Then stop asking questions. I know who I’m working with and what I’m doing. Your job is to do what I say. Got it?”

Areval doesn’t look satisfied, not in the slightest, but what choice does he have? All he can hope for is that these scoundrels don’t try to screw the group over.  
For now, he shrugs and sighs.  
“Got it, boss.”

As he leaves and begins to check the crates, making sure that everything is properly arranged, he sees how Orvas approaches one of the smugglers that is not carrying any gear. They don’t shake hands, wave or do any sort of expected greeting. There’s a slight dip of Orvas’ head, but that’s about it. They speak in hushed voices and the smugglers don’t appear to waver in their task for a moment. If the doubt is mutual, they don’t show it.

Areval feels kinda stupid for hesitating. He’s not usually one to mistrust his leader and the very thought practically makes him chide himself for considering it.  
Orvas is not just a skilled warrior and a clever gang leader, but a wealthy businessman. He’s the younger brother to the Duke of Vvardenfell, Vedam Dren, and is therefore quite influential, which opens a lot of doors across the political spectrum. Orvas has always led them right and despite his brother’s affiliations, he is pretty much the only one who properly stands up to the Empire.

Questioning Orvas’ decisions is therefore not just unwise, but nigh unthinkable. If he believes this is the best way for Camonna, then who is Areval to argue? This is no doubt another element that will help determine the future of Vvardenfell and Morrowind as a whole, to drive out the outlanders from their territory once and for all.  
…but then why does he feel like his stomach churns in the vicinity of these hooded entities?

Unfortunately, enquiries will have to wait for another day. It’s at this point that something happens out in the shadows. In the outskirts of the village, there’s a quick surge of movements behind the trees and bushes, which quickly begin to advance. Most of the gang doesn’t immediately react to it, until someone suddenly yells.  
“S’wit! Legion!”

Whether this person has any more details to give or not is impossible to tell, as a fireball hurtles to their location and explodes next to them, along with three other people that stand around them. The strength of the shockwave sends all of them flying backwards.  
From her position next to a tree, Vaziri looks particular pleased, her tail wiggling in delight. She’s not at all adverse to fighting people that have become notorious slavers and seems proud of what she just accomplished.

This attack is followed by a charge from a few Legion squads, who try to swarm around the harbor, to close all of Camonna in and potentially overwhelm them with a pincer maneuver. Obviously, Orvas doesn’t intend to allow that to happen.  
“Spread out into the village! C’mon you fetchers, get up! Swords and shields at the front, bowmen at the back! Someone take care of that bloody mage!”

While they attempt to organize their defenses and flee behind the houses of the settlement, several imperial archers line up behind their covers dozens of meters away and fire at least two quick volleys before close combat fighters can engage.  
Camonna are not stupid nor incapable in combat, which is why they switch positions and launch counter assaults, to prevent being boxed in. The Legion is likely unwilling to torch the village too, which is something that the thugs can use to their advantage.

One of those who leap first into combat is none other than Maak-Veh. The argonian sprints forward with swift and calculated moves, holding his spear pointed downwards in one hand at his side. He jumps in among a group of five dunmer and surprises them with his speed. He’s exceptionally fast and initiates the battle by kicking the first one in the chest, before dodging the slash that comes from their comrade almost immediately. He spins his spear around and uses the blunt side to bash them in the face, letting them drop to the ground. Continuing the twirling move, he leaps ahead and swings the sharp edge of the weapon across the chest of another. These three are brought down before most have even managed to react.

None of the ones he faces – who admittedly have not been equally trained – stand a chance. Maak accurately determines the angles and velocity of his foes, parrying the ones that attempt countermeasures and redirects them to expose their weaknesses. He manages to deflect the attack of one enemy, disarms him and then pushes the butt of the spear deeply into the gut, making this man lose his breath, before knocking him out.

When a woman sneaks up from behind with two daggers, it seems like she’s actually going to succeed for a few moments, but this is false hope – at the last second, he ducks and both blades go astray. Before she can change her direction, he spins around on the ground and stretches his leg out to trip her. Once she falls, another punch concludes her struggles too.  
Two more Camonna members try to flank him, but he evades backwards and swings the blunt end of his spear into an uppercut motion under one foe’s chin, making them stagger. He vaults towards the second person, grabs her shoulder and knees her in the abdomen, before tossing her right into her comrade.

One might say that Maak makes it look easy, but the truth is far more complex. Instead, the argonian is able to perceive the ebb and flow of the battlefield, analyze it and then strike with frighteningly accurate maneuvers. He may be a hunter at heart and have acted in that capacity in the past, but they don’t call him a weapon master for nothing. This is the type of situation where he truly thrives. It’s why Caius recruited him to begin with.

In the meantime, Jollain has another focus entirely. She has separated herself from Tayerise’s side and runs together with the commander of this mission, Legate Svalen. As Asta wants to be the one to apprehend the leader, as commander to commander, Jollain is there to back her up. The bosmer isn’t just quick on her feet and with her hands, but observant too and any time that the nord faces problems, Jollain can pitch in to assist her.

Unfortunately, their path is not as simple as they may have hoped. Not only did Orvas bring quite a few fighters with him, perhaps as some kind of security measure, but a particular individual stands in their way – Areval. The dunmer spots his brother’s girlfriend while he hides behind a cottage and feels a surge of rage filling him.  
“You again? I’m getting pretty fucking tired of your constant interference, n’wah!”

Jollain is often quite split regarding this man. One half of her wants to be smug, to tease and mock him, as she would with any asshole. The other half is much more…compassionate might be the best way to describe it. It’s not for his sake, but her beloved’s. She’d do anything for Tay, as her actions have shown.  
“Goddammit, Areval. Why did I know you’d be here?”

“This is the last time! You’re not getting away now.”

“Getting away? I kicked your ass back in the markets! I’ll do it again if I have to, but I don’t _want_ to. If you stand down now, we won’t have to fight, and you can avoid getting imprisoned with the rest.”

Due to Asta’s position right next to her, the Legate hears everything and looks rather skeptically at the bosmer.  
“…that’s presumptuous. Pretty sure I’m the commander of Moonmoth, not you.”

Jollain’s shoulders slump an inch or two and she looks up at the nord.  
“Mom…he isn’t needed. He’s just small fry.”

“Since when? He’s still a criminal _and_ the man who tried to assassinate Councilor Dram Bero.”

“Yeah, but-…”

Her words are interrupted when Areval and a few of his fellow Camonna charge into the duo, likely having enough of their chatter. They’re a bit too far away from the rest of the imperial troops, meaning that the thugs could potentially outnumber and overpower them.  
Luckily, that isn’t how this confrontation ends. It is not Jollain nor Asta who needs to face Areval, as another woman steps in between.

Areval can only watch in shock as a large steel axe is held up in front of him, blocking his passage and the blades. His red eyes divert upwards and locks with a pair from another.  
“…sister?”

The idea of fighting his cherished sibling is not just discouraging, but one that he had hoped to avoid at all costs. After she left Camonna, he felt like the possibility of them facing each other wasn’t non-existent, but he figured it wouldn’t become an issue any time soon. Why does she have to be here now?  
Even worse, the expression she offers him is a hardened one, unyielding. Her stare is both judgmental and disappointed.

“If you have to fight anyone, Arry, it’ll be me.”

“Tay…dammit. You shouldn’t be here!”

“Nor should you.”

He can only watch as Jollain and Asta keep going, engaging his allies and comrades. The nord is a particularly ferocious opponent, huge and strong. She knocks her enemies aside, all to get to her real target. Eventually, she points at him with her blade.  
“Orvas Dren, you despicable coward! Come out here and face me!”

Whether he’s insulted or merely intrigued, the Kingpin still steps out of his cover, holding his huge ebony greatsword in one hand.  
“You think you’re tough enough to fight me, nord? Delusional, as all outlanders. It’ll be a pleasure to deliver your pitiful remains to your imperial masters.”

As his blade collides with her shield, the siblings are too distracted by each other.  
“What are you doing, Tay? How can you side with the imperials against your own brother?”, Areval says, both perplexed and disgusted.

Tay exhales and turns her eyes away, inspecting his footwork.  
“I haven’t sided with anyone. I took this job to stop you from doing something stupid.”

His frown returns, and he clutches the hilts of his weapons’ even harder.  
“You think it’s stupid to align with Morrowind over our oppressors?”

“If you think Camonna represents our freedom, you’re blind, Arry.”  
Their fight is temporarily stalled, as neither have any wish to kill or hurt the other. What shatters this notion is when Areval attempts to bypass her and aim for Jollain, which is something Tay can’t permit. She immediately gets in his way and hold her axe at the ready.  
“I won’t allow you to target her.”

It’s so confusing for him. He loves his sister and his family, but this stance and action infuriates him.  
“Don’t you see what’s happened? She has poisoned you, Tay!”

“The only poison here is Camonna. When will you begin to see the truth?”

“You really choose her over your own family?!”

She shakes her head in slight disbelief, frustrated that he would simply repeat the lines of another.  
“What is it with you and father making nonsensical distinctions like that? I can choose both, dammit!”

Eventually, even though she doesn’t want to, she makes an effort to fight him. The notion itself is demoralizing, something they’ve always desperately avoided. They’ve sparred with each other, had playful contests, but they’ve never actually been serious in their struggles. She may not aim to kill him, as that prospect is not just absurd, but utterly terrifying, but disarming him still means a ferocious clash that might end in bloodshed.

Despite her misgivings about the confrontation, it’s harder for him. Tay is stronger and larger, even if not as quick. She has more experience and he has always been aware of how skilled she is. Whenever they teamed up, he was the mouth and she the muscle. It worked brilliantly in many scenarios and they could trust each other wholeheartedly.  
That’s the second angle which complicates matters – this is his sister, his family. It’s unthinkable that he would ever fight his own blood.

In another section of the battlefield, while Asta and Orvas clash with one another, neither spots how Jollain tries to slip past and approach the actual ship. She looks at it, seeing that it’s made of wood like most other seaworthy vessels. Has to be pretty flammable, no? If she can destroy it, she could cause a lot of damage to Camonna’s efforts. She may be with the Blades, but couldn’t hurt doing the Thieves Guild a favor, right? Habasi would definitely appreciate it.

There’s also another angle here, and that’s her interest in these smugglers. This is the so called ‘Sixth House’, the ones that Caius was once fascinated by. If she can eliminate their escape route, maybe the Legion can arrest them. How much information wouldn’t they be able to gain from such a scenario? And who are these people anyway? What are their goals and why have they chosen to associate themselves with a name that should be cursed across Morrowind?

Upon approaching the dock, she spots several Camonna members fighting Legionnaires nearby, but she disregards them. She focuses instead on the robed entities that still roam the pier, ignoring the actual battle. They are instead determined on retracting all of the gear that they were trying to unload earlier.  
Unfortunately, as she gets closer, the glint of Masser and Secunda suddenly illuminates one of them, instantly halting her stride. She gets a glimpse of their appearance, seeing a contorted shadowed shape – it is not the contours of a dunmer’s face.

Being in the vicinity appears to have brought the attention of this one to her and they turn directly towards the bosmer. An arm is lifted and a clawed hand points towards her. She’s not sure if it’s her imagination, but the winds carry whispered words in their grasp, which reach her ear.  
_“Moon-And-Star.”_

She nearly flinches. Did she just hear them correctly? Were those the actual words spoken or is her mind playing tricks on her?  
She feels a slight vibration across her chest and face, making her take a fearful step back. Her body has practically frozen and she hadn’t even noticed that she’s holding her breath. This hesitation gives Camonna a chance to launch a counterstrike towards her, now that they’ve spotted her breach.

Due to the sheer shock of what she just experienced, she’s almost overwhelmed, but aid arrives in the shape of magical icy spikes fired from the east. Once more, her hide is saved by Vaziri.  
“Thanks! I owe you…again. Really have to start paying those back soon.”

The khajiit hurries up to her side and discourages further attacks with cones of fire aimed at the gang members, convincing them to retreat. Usually, she would be pretty smug, but her face shows concern instead.  
“Are you alright, Jollain? You stumbled just before you reached those enemies.”

Jollain briefly hesitates, unsure if she should say something or not, but shakes it off.  
“It’s…nothing. Just thought I saw something.”

The rest of the battlefield is quickly moving in the direction of the Legion’s victory, with several Tong fighters being arrested. A few have been killed or injured on either side, but it’s not quite the bloodbath they may have feared.  
Unfortunately, the soldiers are too late to seize the Sixth House. The smugglers have already prepared their ship for departure with impossibly fast efficiency. The craft is on the verge of sailing off.

In amidst the chaos, Orvas manages to distract Asta with some kind of alchemical smoke bomb, which allows him to create some distance and then rush towards the ship. A few of his troops follow him and they make straight for their allies’ vessel.  
One of the few fights that lingers is the one between Tay and Areval, and while the pier isn’t too far from them, it’s unclear whether he will make it.

Tay succeeds with disarming him and while no Legion soldiers are nearby, neither are his allies. He stands alone and without access to anyone but his sister.  
She stops when he become exposed and holds up her axe towards him, but goes no further. She doesn’t dare to. Areval himself peers into his sister’s eyes, scouring them for answers.  
“I don’t want you as my enemy, Tay. I never have”, he tells her quietly, surprisingly gentle.

That softens her expression too and she reveals her internal turmoil. It’s difficult to see him like this.  
“Then don’t be. Leave Camonna now and go your own way. Or join me.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“This is my life, Tay! You really want me to abandon everything I’ve worked for?”

Her grip tightens, her gaze sharpens, and she feels how conflicted she really is. Why can he not see what this is doing to him?  
“That’s not true, Arry! You’re better than this, better than them. You can be more.”

He scowls in return, gesturing at the battlefield several meters away.  
“What, you want me to beg to the Legion, ask to sign up?”

“Did I say that?”

“It’s what it bloody well sounds like to me! I don’t know what in Oblivion you’re thinking, but I refuse to be their puppet, Tay.”

“And no one is forcing you to be. Just…Camonna is not the right way.”  
Both of them realize that neither will want to give in, to surrender in their opinion, even if they won’t necessarily fight. They can’t relinquish their righteousness.  
“Stay, Arry.”

“I can’t.”

And with that, he turns and dashes to the docks. Tay swirls and looks after him, lifting her hand, but she doesn’t reach out. She lets him go.  
She regrets it almost immediately and chooses pursuit instead, but it’s too late. She won’t be able to catch up anymore. The last she sees of her brother is how he sprints across the length of the harbor and leaps towards the ship, barely getting his hands onto the side of the railing. She spots how someone arrives to grab his arm and pull him up – Orvas Dren. The Kingpin himself stares at her from a distance as they disappear with the Sixth House.

A few meters behind her, Asta comes running as well, being out of breath.  
“Dammit!”, she shouts and tosses her blade to the ground. “That crafty son of a bitch! I knew I should’ve targeted the ship and cut off their escape route. Now we’ll never get him!”

Soon enough, Maak, Vaziri and Jollain join the two women, seeming at least slightly less worried.  
“Hey, that was a pretty good fight, though, right?”, the bosmer remarks. “Look at how many goons you’ve arrested. I call that a win.”

Asta views both her and the rest of the moonlit battlefield skeptically, but she nods slightly, even if it’s infused with disappointment.  
“I…suppose that’s true. Didn’t get the real bounty, though.”

Maak chooses to address the nord as well.  
“Have their debt been sufficiently paid off now, Legate?”

“Yeah, it’s over. We did strike a blow against Camonna and you all helped. That’s more than enough, I’d say.”

Jollain seems thoroughly pleased as she hears it, throwing her arms in the air.  
“Woo! Sounds good to me. Hate owing people stuff. It’s why I never borrow drakes from anyone.”

“That said, I’d appreciate it if you want to help us in the future. Orvas is still out there and we can’t give up until he’s behind bars or gone.” She shifts her eyes to the dunmer. “Especially you, Tayerise. If you can convince your brother to stand down and help us, I’d be willing to overlook his transgressions.”

There are hints of sadness and concern blatantly filling Tay’s eyes.  
“I…wish it was that simple. Not sure he’ll ever listen to me.”

The sight inspires compassion and care in Jollain, who approaches her girlfriend and wraps arms around the dunmer’s waist, to embrace her.  
“Give ‘im time. He’ll see we’re right eventually, I know it.”


	13. Fire heart

Aching feet, stuffed lungs and aggravated eyes. Jollain would never allow herself to be associated with the idea that she’s somehow a lousy wayfarer. She’s fast, agile, a decent climber and while not tremendously intellectual, she’s creative enough. It’s unfair to not acknowledge her sharp eyesight and keen sense of awareness, all of them being skills or traits that unquestionably would be beneficial for a traveler. Her only disadvantage, that she’d willingly concede, is a lack of experience with long treks.

Sure, she can sprint and dash short distances, her time evading guards back in the Imperial City and through the veiled alleyways of Balmora has made this evident, but they are usually fleeting occurrences, ones that be concluded in minutes. She’s not sure she has ever allowed herself to be dragged onto excursions that can last for _days_ of uninterrupted strolling. The very prospect was nigh absurd to her. Why would she even need to?

She’ll admit that living in Vvardenfell has certainly forced her to follow the roads between settlements on a more frequent basis than she ever had to in her former home, but most journeys in Vvardenfell offer alternatives. Despite her distaste for them, silt striders are quite handy for such endeavors. The only time she ever had to entertain traversing any significant distance on her feet are on the occasional trip to nearby villages or locations, such as Tayerise’s family farm.

This current expedition may be the furthest length she has ever made on foot, and if she’s being honest, her enjoyment is not at its peak.  
Wandering up the span of the West Gash was quite grueling enough on its own, especially when they had to drift off the beaten path and saunter through the wilderness. Somehow, this thought pales in comparison to the act of treading across the Ashlands.

Jollain is pretty certain that she wasn’t prepared for it. Sure, warnings had been issued by Maak-Veh and Tay, both who had previously visited – or lived, in Tayerise’s case – in the area, but words could not appropriately describe the sensation of being there. Her brief stay in Ald’ruhn last year had provided some miniscule effort to prepare her, but even that instance was sheltered, dissimilar from the real thing. A microcosm in the maelstrom of the mountain’s shadow.

Harsh, that’s the initial reaction, the immediate word that comes to mind when one attempts to describe this environment. This region is not just a dry wasteland, saturated with virtually nothing but grime, dust and stone, but also exceedingly warm and unnervingly dark. Everywhere, there are remnants of barren flora, clusters of large stone obelisks and clouds of swirling cinders. There is almost no hour during the day or night where the sky isn’t grey, with no signs of any shift. It’s like the whole place is cursed to be shrouded in fog.

And the ash. Oh, _the ash_. That word practically loses its meaning outside this land.  
Even though she’s constantly draped in protective gear, Jollain feels like she can detect its intrusion everywhere. When the storms begin to blow, they’re relentless and omnipresent, surrounding every fiber of their beings.  
She can recall the various tempests back in Cyrodiil, when the rain poured down, lightning struck from the heavens like Kynareth’s untamed rage and ferocious gales shook the houses of the Waterfront.

The ash storms, by comparison, are much stealthier. Well, not in the sense that they can’t be perceived, but they are not so obvious in their devastating stride. In essence, they are strong winds permeated with the dust particles erupted from the elevated peaks in the center, sweeping across the terrain to envelop all who trespass in an oppressively hounding maelstrom.  
The worst of it all is the fear that joins it upon arrival, the dreaded assumption that it might escort a very familiar sickness. The citizens of Vvardenfell have become quite aware of the fact that these whirlwinds carry the incurable Blight in their grasp. Running from them is nigh impossible and every time they descend upon wanderers, the air grows thick and heavy. Jollain wouldn’t outright state that it’s like nature tries to suffocate her, but that’s the sensation it emits. Trying to breathe deeply won’t really help either, for you’ll only catch motes of ash.

Except for this harrowing element, another local peculiarity that draws the bosmer’s attention is of course the massive natural structure which stands above all else in its vicinity – the Red Mountain. She has seen it before, primarily during her mission in Ald’ruhn. The disparate aspect in this occasion is the fact that she felt protected in the city, by the walls of the contorted Redoran streets. This shelter doesn’t operate here.

Within the Ashlands, she is exposed to all horrors. The Mountain’s height endlessly looms above its territory, and it's indisputable that the landscape alters to its whims. The ash emerges from it, heat is spewed out from its gaping maw at the top in a never-ending stream and all avenues of understanding the environs have evaporated, due to a torrent of flaming and fuming eruptions in the past.

Jollain can see why the dunmer carry so much respect for this entity, even outside the superstitious belief of Dagoth Ur resting in its depths, or whatever. She was never a major fan of the White-Gold Tower in the Empire’s capital and not just due to its size. It represented so many different concepts all in one – authority, discrimination, vigilance, segregation and imperial superiority. And yet, even with that in mind, she isn’t sure that the tower was ever enough to challenge the mountain.

Interestingly, the remainder of the group doesn’t appear to be quite as adversely affected by it as the bosmer. Even little Amnet seems to be doing decently, at least with the spring in his step that they witness every now and then. Though, he is admittedly a creature that has adapted to this climate.  
Maybe it’s because they’ve lived here for so long, but Jollain almost wishes to express feelings of how unfair this scenario is. Why does she have to be here, haunted by all this discomfort, when she can’t stand it?

Their current location is far to the north, walking along the path to the village of Maar Gan. Jollain has very little knowledge of what that place contains, nor what to expect, but Tay has suggested this is the preferable route.  
Without any storm in their vicinity, Jollain gets the gratifying opportunity to pull down her scarf and hood, letting the wind encircle her hair and make it dance. The heat has not left their company, but she doesn’t care. Not at this very moment, at least.

The bosmer shifts her gaze towards her friends, seeing how most of them continue to adorn their faces with the cloth safeguards, both over their heads and their bodies. Jollain is now in the mood for conversation, though, so they’ll have to indulge her.  
“Tay, why do you insist that we go to Maar Gan? Didn’t your dad say they live by the coastline? Sounds to me like we should just follow it until we locate their camp.”

Being courteous enough to acquiesce to her girlfriend’s implied wishes, Tay pulls down the scarf and exposes her mouth, to let herself be heard.  
“It’s a decent backup plan, but the village is a prudent starting point, in my opinion. We can ask around, see if the tribe has visited recently. If they haven’t, there’s a foyada not too far to its east, which we can utilize as a unhindered passage to the coast.”

Jollain mentally halts on one particular word, gazing at her girlfriend bemusedly.  
“…a what?”

“Foyada. Uh, it’s…” She gestures with her hand, searching for an apt explanation. “…an ashlander term. It means ‘fire river’, sort of.”

Concern quickly materializes on Jollain’s face.  
“Uh, okay. Dunno about you, but I’m not fireproof, so I suggest we don’t swim in that stream.”

Her remark makes Tay chuckle.  
“It’s not a literal description. Every now and then, lava – molten liquid fire, the Temple calls it – erupts from the peak of the Red Mountain, trickling down across its sides. The overbearing heat from this outbreak creates ravines in the soil, like roads, which eventually solidify. This result is what ashlanders call ‘foyada’.”

The summary itself is fairly fascinating, but Jollain is startled by an entirely separate prospect.  
“Divines…that sounds amazing and terrifying. Not sure I’ve ever witnessed this ‘lava’ in person.”

“Well, like I said, it’s a type of fluid which runs and dribbles just like water, albeit denser, but its temperature is so immense that it can practically melt anything in its path. Once it hardens, it grows sturdy like a rock.  
Foyadas also prevent excessive leakage, for when one has been carved, any succeeding lava flows tend to funnel into an existent track. New ones can undoubtedly be formed, but it’s fairly rare. Also, the majority of molten pools and rivers are situated in Molag Amur, the southern regions of the Ashlands. I’ve been there a couple of times.”

Jollain permits her mind to process the information received, but still appears quite confounded. Her hands rise to her cheeks as she attempts to comprehend these previously inconceived notions.  
“The more I hear, the less I understand the ashlanders. I mean, I’ve got every respect for ‘em, but living here sounds insane to me.”

“To you, perhaps, but the rugged quality of this domain is part of the reason why our ancestors sought it out to begin with. They embraced the words of Veloth, who saw the importance of learning from this cruel atmosphere. It tested our people, educated us about the hardships of life, to not descend into the decadence of the altmer customs we left behind. Ashlanders honor and value these traditions.”

There’s no retort offered from Jollain and no one really anticipates it either. Instead, she allows herself to ruminate on it for a while, trying to comprehend their lifestyles from another angle.  
In the meantime, Maak, who still uses his spear as a travelling aid, shifts his eyes to the khajiit on the other side of the group. Like many argonians, Maak tends to prefer more humid and wetter surroundings, which is why Jollain is impressed by how externally undeterred he appears.

“Now that we are miles from any civilized quarters, or at the very least a couple of kilometers, perhaps you’d like to provide some answers, Vaziri?”

Amusement slides onto her expression when she meets his gaze, her pierced ear twitching slightly in recognition.  
“It is fascinating that you would wait all this time to speak, ser Maak-Veh.”

“I believed it would be suitable to wait until we crossed the border into the Ashlands, far away from any major travelling routes, so we could both feel a sense of privacy.”

“And if you do not approve of what I have to tell you, there might be a lava stream you can shove me into, perchance?”

The scales of his brow furrows in displeasure.  
“I don’t know where you get these ideas, but I believe they say more about you than me.”

The assassin chuckles, but settles down shortly after, growing more somber.  
“You want to hear the truth of my choice to accompany you, I assume? I have no qualms about confessing my interest for Jollain, an aspect that she has long been aware of. That said, what I heard on the streets of Balmora is definitely another layer.”

Maak’s eyes temporarily drifts over to their bosmer companion.  
“The action of gossiping about confidential information in public is likely something we should discuss at a later date.”

Obviously feeling like she’s unjustly targeted, Jollain raises her hands in the air.  
“Hey, don’t aim all the blame on me! Honestly, we were whispering at best!”

“Uh-huh”, he replies, voice dripping with doubt.

Another laugh erupts from Vaziri’s direction, before she continues.  
“The mission to investigate the authenticity of the Nerevarine did not escape me, and it’s a tale I know well. Discovering the truth, including sera Jollain’s involvement, is a very exciting quest.”

“I see. Then I suppose the question is, do you actually think Jollain could be the Nerevarine?”

He receives a shrug as an initial response.  
“I don’t know, nor do I intend to speculate. My belief or wishes don’t matter, but the possibility is undoubtedly exhilarating. Either way, I wish to be present, regardless of what you uncover about the truth.”

Maak nods slowly, lifting a hand up to the natural spikes protruding from his jaw.  
“And that’s your only incentive for joining us? Forgive me for constantly doubting you, but it does seem strange why you would be so intrigued by a local dunmer superstition.”

Whether an accusation or not, Vaziri grows introspective, her eyes shifting to the road ahead.  
“Dunmer society, traditions and customs are elements that I will freely admit I’ve always had to struggle with. I have lived here all my life, but there has never been a time when I haven’t felt like an outsider.”

The eyes of all three are now fixed on the khajiit.  
“You grew up here?”, Jollain inquiries.

“Yes. Well, not on Vvardenfell specifically. I was born as a slave in the realm of Deshaan on the mainland. I inherited those chains through birth, as my parents were trapped in its grasp, with seemingly no opportunities for escape.  
When I was still very young, I encountered a member of House Telvanni who was there on official errands, which I can’t remember the specifics of now. He took an interest in me and my intrinsic magical talent, which could be detected by those with the affinity. He offered to take me in, but not out of kindness.”

“Had ulterior motives, huh?”

She inclines her head, a glimmer of distaste entering her eyes.  
“He bought me from my owners, people of little value and capability, who were more than keen on acquiring such a high price for a young slave. That was how I arrived in Vvardenfell.”  
She lifts one of her hands, corrects the collar of her cloak to cover her neck a bit further, while her ears flutter hastily.  
“His purpose for me was to…experiment, one might say. He wished to test the magical abilities within non-dunmers, how their thaumaturgical traditions would operate in us.”

She’s not the only one with an aversion to this. Tay display small indications of discomfort, Maak’s demeanor grows acutely solemn, while Jollain scowls sharply.  
“What in Oblivion...he treated you as some kind of object? Why?”

Vaziri shrugs her shoulders somewhat nonchalantly.  
“From what I could gather, it seemed like his intention was to utilize this knowledge in order to prove himself to his superiors within the Telvanni Council, to one day seize his place among them.”  
Her ears sink slightly.  
“The tests and procedures were often…gruesome, details which I would prefer not to relay.”

“Understandable”, Maak states plainly. “We won’t interrogate you about the specifics.”

She nods curtly.  
“I am grateful. Safe to say, it was not a life I enjoyed.  
Luckily, the constant research exercises provided me with ample opportunities to forge a resistance. My magical aptitude grew substantially, and I became far more capable to defend myself. My ‘master’ never saw it coming, likely due to the pervading narcissistic viewpoint of his. Telvanni mages are like that – megalomaniacal and absorbed in their own perceived superiority. It leads to many unforeseen perils and demises.”

“Did you kill him?”, asks Tay.

They hear a minor snigger, and her tail practically wriggles in delight.  
“I saw my chance one day, when he wanted me to infuse the fire I had developed an affinity for on an enchanted practice target. Due to his decision to teach his subjects how to read, I had been consuming forbidden tomes and notes in secret, to expand my comprehension for its diverse usage.”  
She elevates her hand in front of her, summons a small ember, which she allows the opportunity to dance in her palm.  
“I took great pleasure in his surprised expression as I enveloped him in the hungry flames. I let the moment linger for but a few seconds…and then _eradicated_ his existence.”

The voice she utilizes reveals the legitimacy of her statement, as it soars with contentment. The others aren’t quite sure what the appropriate manner to react is. They’ve all killed in the past, an unmistakable truth of the matter, but did they ever revel in it to this extent?  
“What happened after that? Did the others try to hunt you down?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. After it was over, I was determined to discard my chains, before the rest of those Telvanni miscreants could ‘reacquire’ me. I would never belong to anyone ever again.”

Tay studies her with combined emotions of pity, uncertainty and curiosity, folding her arms while her gaze still concentrates in that direction.  
“It must have been hard to move on after all that.”

With the hands disappearing under her cloak again, Vaziri exhales through the nose.  
“You have no idea. I was very young at the time and surviving on your own as a runaway slave is…unlikely. Without outside support, most die or get recaptured.  
Have either of you heard of the ‘Twin Lamps’?”

Both of the elves look perplexed, but Maak dips his head in acknowledgement.  
“I have. It’s an anti-slavery group, right?”

“Correct, one with a fervent ambition to end this system across Morrowind. Their leader found me stumbling through the streets of Molag Mar, when she was there for an unrelated visit. She gave me a place to stay for a while and…well, I suppose it helped me realize that hope might exist on Tamriel after all.  
She asked me to join their organization, to help their ongoing fight. I declined.”

Jollain swirls towards her, arching her brow in puzzlement.  
“What? Why? They sound perfect for you.”

“Do they? By now, you should be aware of my perspectives, sera Jollain, what I truly believe in.”

“Well, I mean…sure, the you who exist now, but at the time-“

She quickly shakes her head.  
“No. The Vaziri you see here was developed in the labs of my former Telvanni master. I simply didn’t have the same direction as I do now.  
I appreciated their viewpoint of non-violent campaigning against slavery, but I did not share it. This is why I sought the Morag Tong out. Researching their goals and intentions wasn’t difficult, and I quickly embraced their tenets and mentality, while they welcomed my dedication and adherence to regulation. I saw it as my way to accomplish a new future.”

“Through rampant killing?”, Maak blurts incredulously.

This compels her to snort.  
“Rampant? Please, even you know the Tong cannot strike whomever we wish. That said, there is a kind of visceral freedom in taking a life, especially ones who believe themselves to be above others. I have had Telvanni targets, for example. I cannot accurately describe the elation of this act to people without my background, but it is…sublime.”

Uncertainty lingers on Tay, and Maak can’t deny his skepticism, but Jollain appears to be the most unfazed.  
“You know, I always figured that was the case with you. After we spoke about your feelings on slavery, it seemed kinda obvious. And hey, can’t say I believe you’re wrong.”

Vaziri smiles towards her, bowing her head in a sense of respect.  
“I’m glad you concur.”

Following this revelation, Tay clears her throat, trying to gather her thoughts and emotions.  
“I…don’t really agree with the system either, but I hope you don’t view all dunmer in the same light.”

“Obviously, I do not. My leader in the Morag Tong is a dunmer, and so is my savior from the Twin Lamps. However, this doesn’t mean I can simply forgive and forget years of terror and agony. Your people’s society is still problematic and prejudiced, and no matter where I travel, I never feel completely safe. I have been a citizen all my life, but I am a constant outsider, a truth everyone knows.”

“I’m familiar with that feeling”, Jollain remarks.

“As am I”, Maak dares to admit.

“And I cannot blame either of you”, says Vaziri. “The Empire is not a safe haven, despite the Cyrodiilics claiming otherwise. Just look at Vvardenfell – they took charge years ago and what have they done? They simply loiter, allow the injustices to persist without opposition, out of political convenience. They are accomplices at best.”  
This topic has been heavy, difficult to digest and no doubt a complex issue for Vaziri to reveal, after having let it remain a mystery for months.  
“And that takes us, neatly enough, to our current situation. I cannot say for sure if I actually believe the Nerevarine story is true, but honestly? I hope it is. Perhaps problems will rise for many, who might become collateral damage, and determining whether the old ways will be discarded or not is impossible at this stage, but it will undoubtedly bring change.  
Morrowind’s society, like the Empire as a whole, needs a real twist, to let someone churn and shake everything up a little, turning this ship in a new course. The rise of the Nerevarine may be an apt remedy, a wind of opportunity.”

In spite of previous unease and trepidation, the conclusion she presents now does warm their minds and hearts somewhat, that even someone with Vaziri’s background can maintain optimism.  
Well, everyone except Jollain, that is, who sighs and buries her face in her hands.  
“Dibella’s ass…am I the only one who hopes this damn legend isn’t true?”


	14. Flapping plague

Despite a hurried stride and a persistent sense of hope, their search ended up being quite unproductive. The group’s arrival in Maar Gan, a small and insignificant town in the northern steppes of the Ashlands, while a respite in the endless austerity, was for naught.  
The town may have been fairly welcoming, a fine example of Redoran design in the middle of the harsh reality in central Vvardenfell, but not what they had been looking for. Couldn’t exactly be described as sizeable either.

The citizens fit the definition of what one might call ‘hardy’, based on their demeanor and presentation. Most conversations were terse, direct and simple. You got the answers to the immediate question you were posing, ignoring any ambiguous traits in the inquiry.  
The most intriguing fact of the location was undoubtedly the view to the south – not just the Red Mountain’s fuming altitude loomed above them, but this is apparently the settlement closest to the Ghostfence, the magical protection which seals off whatever evil is assumed to slumber within.

Regrettably, the townsfolk could not offer news regarding Urshilaku. The last visit from the northernmost Ashlander tribe were months past and none could hazard a guess when they might grace the town with another.  
As expected, their journey is fleeting and inconsistent. They pursue the land’s whims, the actual seasons, the ebb and flow of the ash storms and not the calendar of outlanders and the so called Great Houses. This concept is one that Tay is familiar with, faintly recalling the travels of her youth. As nomads, detached from the societal structures of the settled people, they disregard schedules.

Though, that does not give anyone the freedom to claim they have no concept of time at all. In fact, they are quite meticulous about traditions, to move through the same trails every season. The difference is found in the details – the Empire has crafted regulated months with static progress, an idea which disconnects from the essence of life, Nirn’s natural fluctuations. Ashlanders prefer to latch onto the latter.

After departing, the group’s only option was to veer north and hope that they either bump into their target along the way or somewhere over the span of the shorelines. Either result is acceptable and at least somewhat plausible.  
As another night approaches on the horizon, with the Ashlanders still not anywhere near their vicinity, they had to stop and make camp. Protective gear is put in place and tents are erected in such a way that they’ll shelter against incoming ash storm onslaughts, but not so that the team completely loses awareness of their surroundings. As an additional precaution, they establish night watch shifts, dividing each member to grab a few hours each, in case of an attack. Out in this disorderly wasteland, they can’t rule out any possibility, even if no severe assaults have been suffered yet.

Currently, Jollain and Tay are seated close together, armors still partially equipped, bundled in durable blankets. They’re definitely not to ward off any cold, as such elements are practically non-existent here, but rather as preventatives against the invisible illnesses. It’s warm, sure, but at least they’re moderately more secure.

Jollain is situated in the marginally comfortable seat of her girlfriend’s lap, nuzzling Tay’s neck. The warrior herself rests her back on a rock; not the coziest accommodations in the land, but close to her only alternative. In the bosmer’s lap is the head of their scaly pet, seemingly dozing off while lost in relaxed content. Naturally, the little guar is insulated in layers of cloth, but not so much that he can’t see or smell the air. He is still a combat guar, so they can’t impede his movements too much.

Jollain is pretty sure that she’s never had a pet before, as far as she can recall, but speaking to acquaintances with more know-how, she has heard cats, dogs, horses and more can demonstrate the same cuddly behavior. Even during her first encounter, she would’ve never presumed that guar would be so incredibly adorable and snugly, but how else would she describe their lovable companion? He always manages to alleviate at least a portion of her concern.

While she curls up against her lover, her hand slowly caresses the scales of his back and belly, listening to the rhythmic emergence of air from his nostrils. His tail occasionally pokes out from the other side, wagging up and down, displaying his half-asleep state.  
Meanwhile, Jollain’s own eyes are shut, drifting into inactivity, but not quite submerging. She is not currently in a mood enough to snooze, but the opportunity to relax is very soothing.

Due to this reclined position, she doesn’t notice how she’s being watched, albeit not with malicious intent. Instead, it’s her girlfriend’s eyes that are observing her. Every now and then, Tay simply sits like this, arms draped around her beloved, lazily gazing at Jollain without any real purpose. The thief is a gorgeous woman, no doubt about it, but if Tay would confess to have a motive, it’s purely to revel in the idea that her most treasured companion is safe and happy. So much hardship and adversity have obstructed their lives in the past several months and that inadvertently makes these serene moments some of her absolute favorites, when they can just…be.

Occasionally, her fingers drift upwards, slowly and rhythmically running her hand through the copper-hued hair; not tangling it, only gingerly fondling it in soft and gentle waves. Whether Jollain detects it or not, she doesn’t react, likely not minding the touch.  
Eventually, an ardent wind carries some ash that brushes over her face and the brown eyes flutter open, glancing around the proximity. She appears somewhat miffed, and her grumpiness rematerializes when she realizes that they remain trapped in the Ashlands. Not like any of them can change this fact.

Her eyes turn upwards, locking with the loving crimson gaze fixed on her. For several moments, they merely stare wordlessly at one another. Gradually, Tay’s lips curl into a whisper of a smile, which summons an equal reaction from the bosmer.  
Jollain lifts one of her hands, letting her fingertips stroke along Tay’s left cheek. When it has descended to the center point, her thumb brushes across the lips, sensing the lack of moisture.

“You’re dry”, she murmurs.

“Mm. To be expected.”

“Nah.” While not really rising from her enjoyable seat, she points to the bag that was dumped a few meters away. “Grab my bag for me, will ya?”

With an amused snort, Tay obeys the command. She has to stretch her arm and barely snatches the straps at the top, reeling in her bounty. Jollain grabs it from her and digs her hand into the opening. Moments later, she fishes out her waterskin and takes a few sips. After rinsing her mouth to regain some dampness, she swallows and then licks her lips.  
Following this act, she diverts her eyes to its previous direction.

“C’mere, cutie.”

This may be what she says, but she doesn’t actually await a response. Instead, she grabs Tay’s collar and pulls the dunmer in, making her snicker, shortly before she’s enveloped in a soft and a little bit awkward kiss, alternating between intervals of pecks and the lapping tongue over the lips. Jollain is going a silly roundabout wait to wash her, but the warrior has no complaints. Few interactions are as alluring as smooching the most beautiful woman she has ever known; an aspect she praises the Three for every day.

Suddenly, without warning, their enticing reverie is interrupted. Amnet’s head shoots up, startling the two women. His eyes and snout darts around with heightened alertness, frantically searching for a source.  
With growing concern, Jollain attempts to calm him with soothing pats, while Tay furrows her brow and inspects the landscape.

“What happened?”, Jollain asks cautiously.

“I don’t know. He either had a nightmare or his nose just picked something up.”

Jollain adjusts her position, tilting closer to the guar.  
“What is it, boy? Danger?”

Amnet merely opens his maw, bares his fangs and stares off to the east. Almost as in sync, another member of the camp appear, rearing his head out of the messy lair of tents, quilts and rugs that he’s created.  
Maak-Veh raises his nose in the air and sniffs.  
“You smell that?”

The elves gaze bemusedly at one another, attempting to mimic his action. Neither perceive any unusual traces.  
“Smell what?”, Tay asks.

While she certainly can’t pick anything up in this manner, Jollain angles her head sideways, brushes her hair away, and lets her ear be unobstructed.  
“Wait, I hear something.”

On the farthest reach of this encampment sits Vaziri, currently deep in a book that she brought with her. Her focus subsides along with the others’ growing concern and her healthy ear twitches in recognition.  
“It sounds like wings, I believe.”

This description is emphatically accurate, though the lack of assumed amount was not particularly helpful. Suddenly, none of them can ignore the noise, as it increases in volume upon proximity. A whole flock of featherless scaly creatures burst over a nearby hill, heralding their approach with squeaks and fierce cawing. Not those of birds, but something far from aggravating.  
“B’vek!”, Tay blurts. “Cliff racers!”

Two words that not all may be intimately familiar with, but the rumors have not escaped any. Each of them hops to their feet, fumbling for their respective weapons, in hopes of defending themselves.  
The cliff racers surge to their location and pretty much frenziedly attack anything they can even remotely access. Claws, fangs and sharp tails lash against them, desperately seeking targets for their frothing and inexplicable rage.

Unsurprisingly, Maak is the first to wound their foes, by aiming and stabbing his long spear through one of the fairly small flying menaces, all while dodging its comrades. He doesn’t attack with murderous intent, which is why he merely damages a wing.  
“Back off!”, he warns the rest. “Get hurdles between yourself and the flock! They are neither durable, nor intelligent. They’re driven by instinct and have little strategy in their attacks!”

They follow his advice as best as they can, though not without exceptions. Tay, for example, ensures that she impedes the path between the beasts and Jollain, doing her utmost to guard the bosmer as per usual, while sporadically swinging the axe around. Even Amnet gets in on the action, but with less finesse. He primarily attempts to jump and snap his big maw in their direction, or if he’s lucky, headbutt one of the little monsters. He is remarkably efficient.

The one with the utmost problems is Vaziri, who can’t ignore the method utilized. They periodically hear her hiss.  
“Bah! Stay back you furless vermin! I can’t blast you from this angle!”, she blurts, summoning defensive spells in her paws. She would prefer to employ more destructive tools, but a ward is all she can muster at this time.  
“Maak-Veh, assist me! If I use my fire spells here, they will merely explode in my nose!”

In the meantime, Jollain sprints away, swords clutched in her grasp, as a couple of cliff racers chase her behind a boulder. She’s not going to let herself be humiliated by critters, though, which is why she channels power, whirls towards them and unleashes a surge of lightning. The discharge chains into each of them, seriously injuring at least one, while at best singeing the other two, discouraging further challenges.

The argonian has acquiesced to the previous hasty request and swats a couple of foes from Vaziri, acting as her elusive bulwark, but his attention is not set in one location. He shoots a cursory glance to his left and widen his eyes.  
“Wait, don’t leave the camp unguarded! Cliff racers are omnivores; they’ll eat our gear if we allow them the opportunity!”

Seeing no other recourse, the spellcasting duo in the team attempt to target any of the flying fools who drop into the boundaries of their equipment, though it’s not without issues. Their numbers are by no stretch of the imagination the most baffling element.  
“What in Julianos’ name is going on?!”, Jollain shouts perplexedly. “I kill one and two more spawn! Can they clone themselves or something?!”

“No, they simply swarm and obscure each other’s presences, to create disarray. You have any spells that can devastate an area? Now’s the time to use it!”

Jollain furrows her brow, sheathes her blades and clenches her fists. She begins to draw from more fundamental magical gifts, power in the depths of her being.  
“Alright, you fucking greedily little shits, you asked for it!”

Cracking and bursting noise ignite in her fingers, joined by flashes of light. She rarely gets the chance to actually release entire floods of unbridled energy like this, but it shall be very fascinating to observe the result.  
Or that’s what she had presumed would be the case, but the circumstances alter outside of her influence. In a shared swelling of unsourced dread, the cliff racers simultaneously start to squawk in panic and any of them that aren’t cripplingly weakened, or dead, begin to flee.

At first, the group merely stands there fairly flabbergasted, spells and weapons still held at the ready.  
“Uh…what was that all about?”, Jollain queries. “Did we actually scare ‘em away?”

Maak’s gaze is fixated on the horde that continuously gain distance, an incredulous frown holding firm. The spear is still in its previous battle stance.  
“Hmm. I…can’t tell for certain, but that seems unlikely. I’ve never encountered a flock of cliff racers that don’t fight to the death or until they’re reduced to small numbers. They’re too dumb to be deterred by anything else.”

Tay is on her own, standing somewhere between a cluster of rocks and grabs a handkerchief from a slot in her armor, to wipe some blood off her weapon.  
“Okay, so what does that indicate? Was this an unusual flock or…?”

She doesn’t need to finish her thought, as the answer is unveiled almost immediately. Their undesired presumption proves to be the correct option, as a second array of foes advance from the same direction. Theses new creatures are on the ground and travel by foot, walking, running and limping over the slopes. The group would definitely describe these individuals as an approximation of ‘humanoids’, but not dunmer; at least not in the sense they’re accustomed to.

Their new adversaries may have ashen skin, but every single example is bald, with sickly, cracked and infected hides. Except for tattered pieces of cloth, their bodies are practically nude. They are wholly devoid of hair too, though that is nowhere near the most terrifying sight.  
It is the eyes which instill them with the utmost apprehension; or rather, lack thereof. The upper section of their faces are no more than gaping holes, utter voids. How they are able to function at all is a mystery.

The team is shocked, but Maak is the only member who glimmers with comprehension.  
“…Ash zombies?! I…I didn’t think they were real.”

Tay’s stunned gaze travels towards the argonian.  
“Are you sure? I’ve heard of them too, but…they can’t be more than legends.”

“If they are, then these are some pretty tangible legends!”

When they open their contaminated maws, to a nigh unnatural degree, piercing shrieks emerge. The break in the fight only lasts for another few seconds, before the zombies advance. Four of the travelers prepare their minds and hearts for the imminent clash, but Jollain is the sole individual who cannot muster the resolve. She hardly even moves, trapped in a disorienting flash of realization, which she never wanted to acknowledge.

The bosmer is frozen solid as her memories supersedes her consciousness. Flashbacks herald unwanted reactions and she cannot explain to her companions, nor even utter a sound, as emotions overtake her. Her chest permeates with imagined searing heat, her lungs fill with dust and a pressure pulsates in her skull. It becomes strenuous to breathe and she shudders involuntarily. Her instincts and every fiber of her being screams at her to flee. She doesn’t oppose the warnings, gradually backing off. In the process, her heel stumbles into a rock, tripping her to the barren soil in a painful heap. She drops her weapons, but has already forgotten the tools before they can stop bouncing.

At the front of the makeshift battlefield, Maak faces two of their diseased opponents alone, avoiding wild swings with impressive efficiency. In a brief gap, he spins his tool around, slamming the butt of it into one’s chest, letting it stagger away. This motion does not end, but transforms into an acrobatic spin, slashing with the tip across the neck and nigh decapitates the second zombie in a single strike.

“Do not let them touch you!”, he urges. “If the rumors are true, these abominations are infected with the Blight to the brim and we do not wish to contract that disease.”

In reaction, Tay steps sideways, blocking the path where she believes her guar might lunge from.  
“Stay back, Amnet! Let me take care of them.”  
She briefly aims a glance behind her, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Due to the gratifying distance, Vaziri appears particularly pleased as she calls for the flames that she cherishes so immensely. Forming a scalding hot orb, she lets it loose on the screeching duo charging into her. The subsequent devastating explosion sends them both flying in opposite trajectories, being propelled to the ground with fierce velocity. Death does not embrace them quite yet, but she discourages and prevents further advancements with streams of ice.

The dunmer likely finds herself in the most problematic circumstances, only having sheer strength to retaliate with. Beneficial in many cases, but as its undeterminable whether these fiends can even feel pain, they continuously get back up, fervently trying to claw at her. She’s lucky that her armor is too heavy and compact.  
Eventually, she uses the momentum to trip one over and stomps its chest to hold it down. She pummels the second with her weapon’s hilt, to blow it backwards, before she raises the axe above her head and decapitates the adversary trapped below her. Once the second regains its foothold, she has a much more suitable angle to simply bury her axe in its chest.

With all opponents eliminated, Tay glances around the vicinity, hoping to spot Jollain. Similar to her dear guar, the bosmer has vanished. Her chest gets instilled with panic.  
“Jollain? Where’s Jollain?! Jollain, answer me!”

Both of her comrades are equally confused to begin with, until Vaziri raises a finger to the west.  
“Is that not little Amnet’s tail over there?”

Protruding from a rock about a hundred meters away, they spot the chubby scaly posterior whipping around. Hoping for the best, Tay dashes in that direction, praying to the Tribunal that she finds who she seeks.  
They are ostensibly answered, for what she discovers isn’t just her animal companion, but Jollain hiding in a semi-fetal position. She cradles Amnet’s head in her arms, hugging him tightly. Tay can hear the panting and puffing. The eyes are closed tightly, as her body shivers.

Tay tosses her weapon away and kneels down. She discards her gauntlets and gingerly strokes her hand over the bosmer’s back.  
“Jollain, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Another few moments drift past without change, but this slowly subsides. With all of them watching, Jollain reveals her eyes and fixates on her girlfriend with a bewildered look. She needs a breather before she can fully recuperate.  
“I…I don’t-“ She swallows and exhales. “Sorry. Not sure what happened. Things just…”

No more words leave her once Tay’s arms pull her into a comforting embrace.  
“It’s okay. We’re here, Jollain. You’re going to be alright.”

Maak rests his spear on the ground, examining the posture and gestures.  
“A panic attack, I suppose. I’ve seen it before.”

Vaziri stands a few meters away, folding her arms.  
“Do you remember anything, Jollain?”

Jollain carefully licks her lips, beginning to work it out.  
“I…I ran, I think. As soon as those…monsters appeared, I just turned and…”  
The sentence drifts away and she swaps target to clutch, craving Tay’s intimacy.  
“I can’t explain it.”

Her mouth cannot articulate in any meaningful fashion, but her memory fills the gaps, summoning unrequested resolutions.  
_“Moon-And-Star”_ , the ominous winds whisper. _“Elation eternal for all.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You didn't presume I'd go through this entire fic without at least one appearance of the flying menace, did you?_


	15. Clan of stars

After a couple of weeks since initial departure, their goal had finally become tangible. In the distance, obscuring the horizon, the team could spot the camp materializing through the protruding slopes of the yurts that distinguishes themselves in the veil of mists. Numbers and specifics about the interior were hard to determine and none of them had much to add regarding threat assessment. They have to plunge into the abyss and hope for unexpected rewards.

The group had pursued the track previously suggested by Tayerise, through the foyada that ran diagonally to the north. Sadly, their luck had not improved, and their quarry was nowhere in sight. As giving up was not an option, they veered to the east and continued, following the northern shorelines of the Ashlands. This was a clever and fruitful choice.  
Cold winds sweep in from the Sea of Ghosts, a vast, yet eerily empty body of water with immense arrays of sharp rock clusters that prohibit many avenues for sailors. The name was aptly selected, whoever conceived of it.

Unfortunately, their approach does not go unnoticed. They may not have realized this fact themselves, but their stride was spotted long before the camp was even within sight. As their speed slows and the group discusses how to best make introductions, they wander between a collection of silent and barren stone obelisks. There have been many of these objects throughout their journey, which is why they go ignored, all the way until other entities leap out from behind them.

“Do not move, outlanders.”

They hear the warning before actually seeing the person that uttered it. Despite a certain comprehension of what might occur upon failing to heed this command, the group does still shift around to get a better view of exactly how much shit they’re in.  
At least eight people have them pinned down, with one half being archers and the rest wielding spears. The design of some weapons is dissimilar from the tools they’ve seen sold in house mer territory, consisting of more organic materials, while others are clearly of iron or steel.

The arms of the team rise in the air, except for Amnet, of course. The little guar trains his reptilian gaze upon the trio of the same species that linger near the ashlanders, though none of the animals attempt to act with hostility against each other.  
“Whoa, easy there”, says Jollain. “We uh…we know how this looks, but we honestly mean you no har-“

“Silence”, one of the sentries interrupts, a spear-wielding man. His virtually black eyes are intense, almost piercing the soul of each. Out of the ashlanders present, he is the only one that doesn’t aim his weapon their way.  
Seconds drift by in silence, filling the group with hesitation and hints of dread. What Falsabit had said sounded agreeable, despite the circumstances, but what if he was wrong after all? Luckily, the leader of their captors eventually nudges his head in the direction of the camp.  
“Keep moving.”

It’s not like they had any other intentions, but now there’s really an incentive to keep up the pace, rather than delay their inevitable arrival.  
They’re guided into the center of the temporary outpost, where large amounts of ashlanders are gathered. It’s difficult to determine exact numbers, but they would guess this tribe consists of over a hundred, maybe more, with dozens of yurts. Jollain hadn’t previously managed to fully form an image what exactly this structure would encompass, but this is now being adjusted. They’re tents, sort of. Big, circular, sturdy, pointed top and made of some type of grey material, likely animal hides and fastened with rope. Some are solitary, others are gathered in coordinated clusters – somewhat reminiscent of Redoran’s style actually. A bunch of fireplaces have been erected in between them, both for warmth and cooking purposes.

The ashlanders themselves are a hardy and quiet lot. Upon seeing the sentries pulling a group of outlanders into their territory, the majority of them merely stare, eyes infused with curiosity or suspicion. The prevailing outfits consist of local animal husks, leather or carefully constructed cloth, much of it ranging in colors of brown, grey, beige, black or ivory. Some of it is crude, but effective in protecting against the harsh elements of this land.  
That’s not to say there is no room for ornamentation and artistic fluidity, quite the opposite. Some wear scarves, hoods and sashes with all types of fascinating designs, in many different shades. Others sport necklaces or amulets, often made of bone or skin and some have facial paint in beautiful, intimidating and cryptic patterns; though, it’s unclear whether the latter are permanent or not. The group can also spot a pen filled with guar on the northern outskirts of the area.

The imperial spies and their assassin ally are taken to the middle of the camp, where the sentries instruct them to wait. The leader strides towards one of the central yurts, which he speaks into the entrance of, without actually walking inside. No more than ten seconds later, another man joins him.  
This new addition easily manages to stand out in a crowd, if one searches for the right traits.

It is not so much his appearance, as that is fairly common - dark grey skin; wrinkled facial features; somewhat retreated long greying brown hair that flows down across his shoulders, chest and back; fierce garnet red eyes.  
What sets him apart from the rest is his attire. Sturdy scaled plates combined with leather, a green scarf resting over his neck and shoulders, a blade in his belt and most of all, a piece of pointed bone at his forehead, formed as some type of circlet. Or maybe a crown? His face is also painted, with various symbols that they can see on the banners hanging in the camp, likely the emblems of the Urshilaku. Could be tattoos.  
This old man is joined by a somewhat younger one, with a lighter hue, more vibrant black hair and a bulkier body, adorned in chitin-crafted armor. The latter carries a metal spear on his back, possibly iron.

The oldest of the two walks purposefully in the direction of Jollain’s group, a small frown taking shape. Everyone else in the camp glances between him and the outsiders, awaiting his judgment. He sizes each of the five up, even Amnet, before he speaks.  
“I am Sul-Matuul, Ashkhan of Urshilaku, and I demand to know what a bunch of outlanders are doing in our territory.” His tone is strict and strong, expecting to be heard. “I don’t recall giving permission for any to enter, nor did I ask for their company.”

It’s not entirely evident whether he’s speaking to his sentries or the outlanders themselves, but Jollain figures an explanation from her might suffice.  
“Uh, well…I get the feeling that your people have misunderstood our arrival. I mean, we don’t want to fight ya or anything. We just wanna ask a few questions and-“

 _“Silence, n’wah!”_ , he blurts, immediately shutting her up. She doesn’t even try to ask for forgiveness. Seems like an ill-advised act, at this point.  
His gaze sweeps across them again, imbued with distrust and mild levels of what they can ostensibly identify as disgust.  
“Argonian, khajiit, bosmer…” He snorts irreverently. “Savages, all of you.”

Okay, that’s not a type of word that any of them wants hurled their way, something they emphatically take umbrage with. While the others stick to furrowing their brows, Jollain raises her hand in his direction and articulates her visceral reaction.  
“Hey, fuck you!”

She’s nigh on the verge of strolling up to punch him, but one of Maak-Veh’s hands land on her shoulder, holding her back.  
Sul is hardly even fazed by the outburst and his gaze travels towards Tay. He looks no less unimpressed.  
“Accompanied by a house mer. Pitiful.”

The warrior scowls and folds her arms.  
“I’m no house scum. I was born among the Ahemmusa.”

A revelation that naturally gains his attention and one brow arches with interest.  
“Born?”

“Yes. My parents left and took their children with them when I was still very young.”

The indignant reception returns with fervor.  
“You’re a deserter? You are even more of an affront to the ancestors than the outlanders!”

“I do not understand this insistence upon deeming us outlanders”, Vaziri interjects. “I grew up in the lands of Deshaan, which means your usage of this term for me is incorrect.”

Sul merely waves her protests off.  
“You are not dunmer, nor ashlander. You are always an outsider to us.”

The khajiit takes a deep breath and mutters while she exhales.  
“House or ashlander, doesn’t seem to matter – they’re all discriminating furless pricks.”

Whether he overheard her statement or not, Sul continues.  
“I ought to throw you out for trespassing in our domain, for our borders are not open to your kind at this time. It would be the appropriate thing to do.”

Not a conclusion that any of them would enjoy, but definitely better than having a hundred arrows fired into their bodies. Then again, there has to be some way that they can salvage this mess.  
In spite of severe reluctance, Jollain figures that she probably has to be the one to do it.  
“Listen, we got off on the wrong foot, okay? We get that you dislike outlanders and we never meant to disturb you, but we just want to talk. Seriously, nothing else.”

Sul continues to stare at her incredulously and they can only surmise that he will decline the request wholeheartedly. But his features soon take a sharp turn, softening up. Did he see something in them, an aspect that convinced him of their honesty?  
“As I am feeling generous, I might grant you the privilege of doing so, but I must see that you’re earnest in your claim. Provide us with a gift.”

Jollain lifts a hand to scratch her cheek skeptically.  
“A gift?”

“Yes, a way to show your humility and sincerity.”

Not an inconceivable appeal, but the bosmer is unsure about the optimal response. She turns to Tay.  
“Uh…any ideas?”, she whispers.

The taller dunmer ponders a solution for a few seconds, before she puts her hands to her backpack, takes it off and starts rummaging through it. Once she fishes out an appropriate possession, she moves to hand it over. It looks like some type of belt.  
“This was crafted by my father, Falsabit, formerly of Ahemmusa. He has been a leatherworker for decades, since the early days of being among the tribe.”

Sul gracefully accepts the item, holds it up and gives it a thorough examination. He yanks, bites, rolls and flicks his finger over it, but the apparel maintains its composure and durability. The Ashkhan nods in appreciation.  
“This was designed by a man who comprehends the intricacies of the hide, who detects and acknowledges the need for imperfections, and one who respects the harshness of the wastes. This is a most fitting gift. I accept.”  
The team looks visibly relieved to hear it. Would’ve sucked if they had to wander all the way back to Balmora emptyhanded. Sul drops the belt on his shoulder for now and then folds his arms.  
“You may speak.”

A kind offer, but the fact that he doesn’t move confuses Jollain.  
“…wait, out here?”

“Yes.”

“But, erm…I really think that this topic would be much better to discuss in private.”

“No, it will not. If you must speak, then you do so with all Urshilaku, outlander. I have given permission. Do you prefer to keep your silence or exclaim your reasons?”

Well, at this rate, the former could actually be a superior alternative, because Jollain doesn’t wish to be flayed as a supposed heretic by zealots.  
“Alright, if you say so. We came here to talk about the Nerevarine.”

Like anticipated, revelation builds further misgivings and cements the tension. Not only Sul, but the man next to him appear highly doubtful.  
“Tread carefully, outlander”, Sul warns her. “This is a delicate matter, one that must not be uttered lightly.”

Just to be absolutely positive, Jollain defers to Maak, silently pleading for his advice. The argonian shrugs back at her.  
“We’ve come this far. I don’t see why you should stop.”

“Okay then…but if they skewer me, please make sure that my body is burnt? I'd like a seaside burial, if that’s okay. Oh, and donate my gold to the Imperial City Waterfront.”

Maak shakes his head in disbelief, but plays along.  
“I’ll ensure your appeal is heard.”

Gathering her courage, Jollain steps forward, distinguishing herself from the rest of her allies.  
“Right, here we go, I guess. My name is Jollain, born in the Imperial City of Cyrodiil far to the west and I…well, I’m here to test my qualifications for being the Nerevarine. Allegedly.”

The overt emotions from the tribe drifts from mistrust to shock. An incredulous and astounded murmur surges through the entire assembled nomads who watch these proceedings, from young to old. No one directly addresses any of the outsiders, until about half a minute later.  
“Absurd”, the Askhan declares. “An outlander being the Nerevarine? That’s impossible. It’s insulting that you would even suggest such a thing.”

Jollain raises her arms in a shrug.  
“That’s what I’ve been saying, but when does anyone ever listen to me?”

The fact that she remains unconvinced only appears to exacerbate the angle, creating further disbelief. At this rate, maybe they will be forced to depart without answers after all. Luckily, Tay is not going to allow that.  
“Though stark-born to sire uncertain”, she recites, “his aspect marks his certain fate. Wicked stalk him, righteous curse him, prophets speak but all deny.” Once more, the camp quiets down. It's plausible that all have heard the Stranger’s prophecy.  
“Jollain has never known her parents and she believes that she was born on the first day of the Shadow’s birthsign.”

While many may be skeptical, none can discard the possibility in the assessment. It does fill a section of the prophecy.  
“It doesn’t matter. She is still an outlander and therefore can’t be the Nerevarine”, Sul reiterates.

“Says who? Provide me with the evidence that claims an outlander is prohibited from ever obtaining this rank. Can you prove your assertion, or is it merely built on a foundation of prejudice?”

Sul frowns at her, but has no adequate answer, nothing to retaliate with.  
“What’s your intention here? Why come to us?”

Jollain scratches the back of her head, still a little nervous.  
“Well, uh…we kinda hoped we could speak to someone with more knowledge. Like, maybe your Wise Woman?”

The Ashkhan’s expression softens marginally.  
“Hmm. That you would know of such a title is a good sign, but I can’t allow an audience so easily. I’m sorry, but I must refuse.”

Mild disappointment materializes on three of the group, but Tay is more ardent, pointing at him with an accusatory finger.  
“That’s not fair! You can’t deny us without cause!”

“I can. I am the Ashkhan and you are but outlanders and deserters. Be off with you.”

What his reasons for rebuffing them out of hand might be, is unclear, but it doesn’t really matter. Soon enough, another member of the camp exits a separate yurt and interferes. It is an old woman, dressed in long robes filled with decorative details and similarly to the Ashkhan, her face is painted as well, albeit with dissimilar designs.  
“Halt”, she tells them in a raspy voice. “You are being too hasty, Ashkhan. Give our guests a chance to prove themselves.”

Sul steers his eyes towards her, uncertainty and hesitation permeating them.  
“Nibani, you cannot command me. I give the orders here.”

“But I am the Wise Woman. This is a spiritual matter, _Ashkhan_ , belonging to prophecy. If they wish to inspect how much of it they fulfill, give them a chance to demonstrate their genuine ability.”

The old man is undoubtedly reluctant, but in this particular case, he chooses to bow to her wisdom.  
“Fine, if you so desire.  
I call for a duel”, he proclaims, to be heard across the camp.

The group is bemused at this proposal, wondering about the implications.  
“To the death?”, Jollain inquiries.

“No, you fool – for honor. The first who yields, loses. Prove that you can fight, Jollain of the Imperial City, and I will grant you an audience with Nibani Maesa.”  
He gestures at the younger man at his side.  
“This is Zabamund, my Gulakhan. If you can defeat him, I shall permit entry.”

Zabamund marches into a more open region of the camp, to give them space to fight. In the process, he also unsheathes his spear.  
Jollain is already starting to dread this outcome, but Tay intrudes again.  
“If you can pick a champion, then surely Jollain should be allowed as well?”

Sul glares at Tay once more, likely getting sick of her constant display of defiance and questioning his every word.  
“That…would be feasible, yes.”

The warrior then shifts her attention to her girlfriend.  
“Darling, let me fight for you”, she pleads.

Jollain appears both bewildered and dubious at this request.  
“What? But, Tay…shouldn’t I be dealing with my own battles?”

“You are meant to prove that you can conduct them, but not necessarily fight them personally. You claim to be the Nerevarine, the Great Ashkhan and Hortator. This means issuing commands too. You are only as strong as those you travel with.”

The bosmer contemplates the proposition, while rubbing the bridge of her nose.  
“…dammit, I hate it when you’re right.” She faces the Ashkhan. “Tayerise will fight as my champion. Or Gulakhan, or whatever…”

Dropping her gear with her friends, Tay approaches Zabamund and brandishes her own weapon, the two-handed axe she’s been using on most occasions when hostilities are unavoidable. She holds it in a steady grip, eyes fixated into his. The Gulakhan himself gives the impression of someone more relaxed, perhaps even confident, spinning his weapon in his hands rather casually. His reflexes and dexterity are impossible to ignore, which might make this clash interesting.

The duel is not a lengthy ordeal, though undeniably intense.  
They both start off by circling each outer in the middle, a mere few meters apart. The rest of the people all give them space enough to move, but not an excess. Neither is granted any paths of escape, but they also do not plead for it. Instead, they survey their respective opponent, frantically scouring their stances for weaknesses.

“This will be fascinating”, Zabamund asserts in a self-assured voice. “I’ve never fought a deserter before.”

Tay’s grasp tightens together with the furrowing of her brow.  
“I am not deserter. My father left the tribe and the choice was beyond me.”

“Yet you never went back.”

“I doubt they would’ve welcomed me.”

“Shows how much you know about the people you allege to be your own.”

He charges into her, headstrong and swift, forcing Tay to block the thrust with the hilt of her axe. Deflecting the attack isn’t a simple task, for he puts a severe amount of pressure behind it. She tries to kick him away, but cannot match his speed and he evades. It does alleviate the strain upon her position, giving her the opportunity to lift her axe into a calculated strike of her own. This one, sadly, doesn’t find its target either.

Despite the moderately heavy attachments on his frame, his quickness and agility are most impressive, practically on the brink of challenging Jollain’s proficiency. Tay can’t chase him down without a fair amount of effort and this takes her right into his terrain. He constantly attempts to lure her in, acting under a façade of inferiority. He teases, almost mocks her with his talents. His jabs are quick and meager, not really meant to damage her to any remarkable degree, but instead devised to annoy, perhaps even infuriate.  
Tay can block and parry, skills that she utilizes more times than she feels comfortable with during the duration of this skirmish. The difficult element is to counterattack, to pay some of the derision back in kind.

It’s inevitable that she will take the bait. When she finally gets angry enough to pursue a wild and hefty swing, he reveals a smug expression. Zabamund easily ducks, spins and aims for her feet. The trick is executed perfectly, with precision and momentum. If she falls, this contest is undoubtedly over, as he can corner her. She cannot fail.  
Internally praying to the Three and the Good Daedra, she stumbles away, but manages to regain her balance at the last second and then deflects the subsequent strike. On the sidelines, Jollain, who’s most concerned for her girlfriend’s health, emits a relieved sigh.

Recognizing how very close she came to humiliation and defeat, Tay proceeds with caution. Being hasty here will only lead to demise and while the status of her honor doesn’t really matter, this struggle isn’t about that – it’s Jollain’s integrity at stake.  
The mistake here was obvious, and she knows what she must rectify – overpowering him will never work, so she must try to outwit him instead.

This is the phase when the battle swerves in her favor. It isn’t affirmed in terms of attacks or interval, but through guile. Tay now lets herself become cornered, constantly retreating, blocking and decreasing the regularity of her own attacks. The hope is that he’ll go for the killing blow in her feigned feeble veneer. All she needs to do is be patient, wait for the gap and seize a timely retort. She has done it in the past and can do so again, regardless of adversary.

Eventually, it happens. He takes the perceived opening, lunging somewhat more ardently than before, but that is folly.  
Tay now sidesteps, drops her axe, seizes the hilt of the spear, violently yanks it out of his unsteady hold and once he’s in range, punches him square in the face. It’s performed with startling efficiency. She may have discarded her weapon, but replaced it with his, leaving him in an unarmed condition. Immediately after it’s completed, she swirls the spear around and targets his chest.

“Yield.”

He has to rub his sore nose to begin with, but given a couple of seconds, he does raise his hands in the air.  
“I yield. You are the victor, f’lah.”  
Tay breathes out and promptly lowers the weapon. The audience descend into an impressed buzz, some even choosing to applaud her. Zabamund dips his head in acknowledgement.  
“That was a clever trick. I bow to your ingenuity, Tayerise of Ahemmusa.”

She offers a faint smile in return and gives the spear back.  
“You almost had me for a moment. You fought well and were a worthy opponent.”

With a disappointed huff, Sul approaches and shrugs.  
“You won, fair and square. I won’t bring dishonor to this tribe by refusing you. You may speak with our Wise Woman, though I doubt it will avail you anything.”

Diverting their eyes in that direction, the team notes how Nibani herself has disappeared into her tent already. Did she predict this outcome, or was she not interested?  
In the meantime, a very happy Jollain hurries up to her beloved. She starts by punching Tay’s chest, though not too vehemently. This is followed by a hand gripping the top of her armor and being dragged into a fervent kiss.

“You’re an ass”, Jollain blurts afterwards.

“…because I won?”

“You scared me, dammit! I thought you were gonna get seriously hurt when he kept trapping you. You looked like a panicked kwama.”

Despite the stated effect, Tay seems pleased.  
“Good. That’s what I intended for everyone to believe.”

Jollain smirks and pokes Tay’s nose playfully.  
“Yeah well, please let your girlfriend know if you do that again? Worrying about you every second is not fun whatsoever. You hauled me here to pretend being some legend. I’ll be damned if I let you abandon me already.”

“That will never happen, Jollain. I will be by your side forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah, I know this isn't what happens in the game, but I wanted to make my own version. They weren't made Clanfriends in the same way, but I figured this would be a suitable substitute for at least letting them talk._


	16. From seven derived

Hospitality isn’t a word that they’d attribute to the ashlanders after the type of welcoming the team just received, but according to Tayerise, the Urshilaku should still get some minuscule amount of credit. Apparently, this is above what most outlanders get upon arrival from other Vvardenfell tribes, particularly some of the southern ones. Jollain can’t decide whether that is a detriment to those clans or places the Urshilaku in a pleasant light. Hopefully, she’ll never have to know.

Quickly following Tay’s impressive victory, the team is ushered into the yurt belonging to the Wise Woman, which happens to be an intriguing opportunity. Upon entry, they get to observe the austere way of the Ashlands depicted inside these homes. Very few ornaments, decorations or overall furniture beyond a bed, alchemical gear to make potions with and some minor personal belongings are contained in these particular accommodations.

Nibani herself is an old and wrinkled dunmer, with light grey skin and small crimson eyes. Shoulder-length white hair hangs from the top of her head, partially tied into braids on the sides. The robe she uses has experienced a lot of wear and tear, but it is far from faded. A pattern forms over the front, created by thin lines and filled squares. Just like the tribe’s Ashkhan and a few other members, the Wise Woman’s face is painted, potentially tattooed, though these marks are smaller than on Sul-Matuul, covering her forehead and chin.

She sits on a soft blanket placed on the rocky floor, holding a mortar and pestle in her thin fingers. She’s grinding some type of herb or plant into a thin paste, but does not explain her actions nor the contents. Her eyes are on the task, not her guests.  
“So, you claim to be the Nerevarine”, she states in her slightly hoarse voice.

Being in the center, her team all glances towards the bosmer, who folds her arms and rolls her eyes.  
“Not really, but some people do.”

“This was your proclamation upon arrival.”

“I know. Never said I personally believe it, though.”

Nibani steers her gaze towards the younger and shorter woman, her emotions being indeterminable.  
“Interesting. It’s peculiar that you would lack faith in your own qualifications, yet you choose to come anyway.”

“Yeah, don’t have a choice. Someone forced me.”

“Hmm. Well, no matter. Tell me your preferred topic and I shall do my best to convey what I know.  
My knowledge about the Nerevarine is vast, though not endless. The day and parents, the moon-and-star, the Sleepers, the Seven Curses, the Curses’ bane, the Stranger, the Seven Visions and the Lost Prophecies. My insight varies and wanes, depending on the subject, but the incarnate has many segments to the truth.  
Please, sit and inquire.”

On the ground, there are a few more quilts sprawled out, potentially prepared for this specific occasion. Maak-Veh and Vaziri share one, while Jollain and Tay take another. Amnet places himself on the ground next to his dunmer companion, leaning lazily against her. He yawns, smacks his jaw and promptly grabs a nap.  
“Well, uh…dunno where to start. There’s just so much”, Jollain comments.

“Indeed, but that should not be strange. The prophecy itself is the most crucial aspect of our belief. Though, I do doubt the veracity of your presence.”

Maak has placed his spear so that it leans onto his shoulder, staring skeptically at the old elf.  
“You do not believe she is the Nerevarine?”

“No, I do not”, she blurts, partially startling the team with such bluntness. “But it won’t stop me from providing the answers you seek.”

What’s that even supposed to mean? If she doesn’t have any faith in this endeavor, then why cooperate? Is she lying? Is it a trick? Is all this simple pretense?  
Jollain shrugs.  
“Well, might as well start from the beginning, right? We’ve heard the tale from the mouths of priests and the Great Houses. Tell me what your tribe believes about Nerevar.”

Nibani halts her chore and reaches for a small wooden box nearby, which she opens to pour the mixture she has crafted into.  
“If you have come this far, you likely know much already, but to us and the other tribes, Nerevar was the Great Ashkhan. He was a commander, a unifier, during a time when the malicious dwemer and a great horde of outlanders invaded our lands. He was a warleader of the house mer, but he honored the Ancestor spirits and the Tribal Law. He pledged upon his sacred ring - One-Clan-Under-Moon-And-Star - to honor and preserve our customs and beliefs, as long as we fought together to protect Morrowind.  
Unfortunately, as you’re likely aware of by now, this never came to be. While we fought and died side by side, the khans of the Houses betrayed Nerevar and, in turn, us. Those who would deem themselves to be gods murdered him, seized their deceptive roles as deities and ignored Nerevar’s promise. But we know, through prayers and dreams, that he will come again. His reincarnation is inevitable.”

A similar, though moderately more hostile version of what they’d already heard from Mehra. Not an unanticipated angle, as the ashlanders are not exactly fond of the treachery they allegedly suffered. Hearing it again only resurfaces Jollain’s misery. The last thing she wants to consider is the unavoidable future of her potential transformation, or whatever this will entail. Hopefully, it will have nothing to do with her, in the end.

“Uh, okay. Yeah, sure”, she says. “Let’s get to the prophecy, I guess. What about the birth and parents angle?”

“Well, there is very little ambiguity in this component, as it is a facet in every prophecy and tale. And while it is true that you meet those requirements by being born on a specific day, to unknown parents, it doesn’t signify much. Many people live that reality.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice. I’ve been saying this shit all along.”

To counter this notion, Tay interjects.  
“But it also doesn’t eliminate her as a candidate, correct?”

Nibani inclines her head.  
“True enough.”

Jollain shakes her head.  
“Whatever. So, what was that about moon-and-star? I’ve heard that a lot.”

“It derives from an heirloom, Nerevar’s family standard. His armor and weapons carried these symbols, some say he had a birthmark with the same depiction. He also wore a magical ring with the moon and star, an object that belonged only to him.”  
The old farseer reviews the bosmer in the center.  
“You carry none of these things.”

Vaziri is caressing her whiskers as she stares at Nibani.  
“The Shadow’s embrace would imply that she belongs to the night, which could be interpreted as a connection to both the moons and a star, as they inhabit the night.”

Nibani sets the box she was holding down in a corner, grabs a small bag which she fishes some thin and withered plants from and returns with them to a thick chitin board. She picks out a knife and starts to cut her materials up into smaller pieces.  
“It could, but it doesn’t explicitly tie her to Nerevar.”

She doesn’t tell her comrades, but Jollain is starting to feel just a little bit relieved when she’s increasingly realizing the lack of signs that she might uphold this prophecy. Maybe she really isn’t this reborn hero. That’d be pretty sweet.  
“You mentioned ‘sleepers’ earlier? What does that mean?”

“Hmm. Well, rumor has it that, across Vvardenfell, people have been gaining odd and unnerving dreams involving Dagoth Ur. Just like the house mer stories, we believe that Dagoth Ur is a great evil, haunting the Red Mountain. He dwells in the unending streams of fiery caverns below, joined by a legion of distorted ash beasts.  
These dreams are undoubtedly sent by Ur himself. The Sleepers are said to be deranged, violent and speak in riddles. It could all be a coincidence, but I don’t believe in accidents. Everything in this world happens for a reason and this is absolutely an indication of Nerevar’s return.  
However, yet again, not necessarily an indication of Jollain here being the Great Ashkhan reborn. Although, since you are here to begin with, you likely have a part to play.”

Just when she thought she had gotten rid of the fear, it reverts into existence, stronger than ever. She’s getting a headache.  
“Great. Yeah, I think I know what you mean. I’ve…been having some of those dreams, actually. Or nightmares, more like.”

Her friends veer to her perplexedly, and even Nibani’s interest is piqued enough to glance in her direction.  
“You haven’t mentioned this before”, Maak comments.

Tay gasps as memories abruptly recover in the back of her mind.  
“Wait, I remember it now. A night, weeks ago, you woke up drenched in sweat and on the verge of vomiting. You said something about a nightmare.”

“Yeah, that was uh…not the first one, nor the last, but probably the worst.”

Nibani nods slowly.  
“A curious element and a fact which undeniably points towards that you do have a function in the story of the Nerevarine. As there have been many with such visions, perhaps it suggests that those who somehow meet the qualifications to a certain degree are all being collected and influenced by Dagoth Ur.”

Tay looks unsure, viewing her girlfriend with increasing concern and takes her hand.  
“That’s…disturbing, in that case.”

Nibani merely shrugs. She is done cutting and pushes most of what she has sliced into the mortar.  
“I am not worried. The real Nerevarine will emerge amidst their shades and strike the evil down.”

Despite the harrowing nature of this response, they proceed. Jollain takes comfort in Tay’s touch.  
“Right. Uh, the Seven Curses, I guess? What’s that about?”

“The Seven Curses of the Sharmat.” The old woman ponders what she just said, but has little of value to add, other than a sigh. “Sadly, it is one of the segments of our tribe’s discarded past. These things happen, and it is plausible that no one still keeps the truth among them. Some Wise Women die without bequeathing the legend to their heirs or a clan is wiped out. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that someone out there is enlightened of its passages in secret, but I personally know none. The Curses’ bane has suffered the same fate.”

“The Stranger is a prophecy we’ve already heard elsewhere”, Maak mentions. “But what about the Seven Trials?”

Despite her previously stern exterior, a small smile now appears on her expression.  
“Ah, yes, the trials. The full title would be the ‘Seven Visions of Seven Trials of the Incarnate’. I am intimately familiar with it. It happens to be the most famous source among our tribe.”

“May we hear it?”, Vaziri inquiries.

“Yes. Listen well, and I shall relay them.”  
She clears her throat, puts down her work and stares off into a wall of the yurt, her eyes growing distant, as she prepares the recitation.  
“Seven Trials – What he puts his hand to, that shall be done. What is left undone, that shall be done.  
First Trial – On a certain day to uncertain parents, incarnate moon and star reborn.  
Second Trial – Neither blight nor age can harm him. The Curse-of-Flesh before him flies.  
Third Trial – In caverns dark Azura’s eye sees and makes to shine the moon and star.  
Fourth Trial – A stranger’s voice unites the Houses. Three Halls call him Hortator.  
Fifth Trial – A stranger’s hand unites the Velothi. Four tribes call him Nerevarine.  
Sixth Trial – He honors the blood of the tribe unmourned. He eats their sin and is reborn.  
Seventh Trial – His mercy frees the cursed false gods, binds the broken, redeems the mad.  
One Destiny – He speaks the law for Veloth’s people. He speaks for their land and names them great.”

The gravity and certainty she spoke with was almost as if uttering an incantation, being transfixed by the entire experience. In fact, most of those present also feel the same severity hanging in the air.  
“Wow, that’s…a lot of questions at once”, says Jollain.

Nibani returns to the present by shaking off the mental enchantment and blinking her eyes.  
“The content, context and purpose should be fairly clear – the Nerevarine shall rise and in order to be properly assessed, seven trials must be completed.”

Maak unhurriedly strokes the scales of his cheeks with his claws in thought.  
“Hmm. Could you give us your assumptions about each one, to give us more understanding?”

The Wise Woman resumes her previous task, but also dips her head in acknowledgement.  
“Yes, it is not arduous.  
One Destiny is simple to assert - Veloth’s people are the dunmer, every single one of us, from ashlanders to the Great Houses. The last time we were united beneath one drive was under the banner of Nerevar at the Battle of Red Mountain, thousands of years ago. No other event has ever managed this feat. I suspect only the Nerevarine can accomplish this near miracle as well.”

Jollain feels a heavy weight coming over her chest, despite the denial.  
“Yeah, no pressure then”, she remarks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “The first trial is pretty straightforward, and we’ve already talked about the details. I…technically fulfill it.”

“You do, but one is far from seven.”

“Thankfully.”

“The second trial is far more elusive. The fact that the Nerevarine cannot be harmed by blight and the Curse-of-Flesh, must mean that they are immune against the Corprus disease which spreads from the mountain. But how could that be? That is the question.”

Behind her, Vaziri’s tail wiggles around as her mind ruminates on their predicament with excitement.  
“Hmm, would that really have to be the case? I wonder if it might not imply another aspect, perhaps that the Nerevarine is capable of healing the Blight.”

“Yes, that is another possibility.  
But the trial also mentions that age must be conquered. How? No one knows. Shall the Nerevarine be immortal, or deliver immortality?”

Jollain emits a relieved sigh.  
“Well, doubt I fulfill any of these.”

“Technically, we can’t know”, Maak points out. “You have not contracted the illness and how does one ‘prove’ immortality? It merely exists.”

“Yeah…I guess. I’d prefer not to test the whole Blight thing, though, if you don’t mind. I mean, if I have to risk death to satisfy the Emperor’s curiosity, I’d rather tell him to go suck on a kagouti’s dick.”

Tay snorts amusedly, Vaziri releases a laughter, while Maak’s eyes roll around. Nibani ignores them and moves on.  
“As for the third trial, it pertains to an ancient legend, regarding the shrine of Azura, in the Cavern of the Incarnate. Other than that, I can reveal no more.”

Maak stares at her incredulously.  
“A peculiar statement. Does this mean you know the location of the cavern?”

“I reiterate - I cannot tell you. Asking is futile, for you will uncover nothing.”

Her retort appears to annoy Tay, who frowns at the old woman.  
“How are we supposed to prove the veracity of Jollain’s capability, if you won’t help us?”

Nibani has swapped to another batch of materials now, though some of them look a bit like nuts or seeds, which she first crushes with the blunt end of the knife, before putting into the mortar.  
“A fair point, but not one that has any credibility here. She has not even completed the second, which makes any further debate theoretical.”  
Tay throws her hands in the air, but doesn’t offer a counterargument. She surrenders to the reality of lacking evidence.  
“The fourth and fifth trials tie into the overarching destiny – the Nerevarine shall unite and command both the Great Houses and the ashlander tribes, which is no small task to achieve. Not only have the Great Houses never stopped bickering since the last invasion by the Empire, but the tribes have long fought, raided and clashed throughout the many eras of our world, with only cautious trade in the interim. We Urshilaku are especially exposed, as most ashlanders carry little respect for the Nerevarine prophecy.”

“The ‘Velothi’ – that’s you?”, Jollain inquries.

“Yes. In some areas, that’s what ashlanders are called. We are the ones who follow Veloth’s true teachings. To consolidate and combine all of these unruly and conflicting ideals under one banner would be a true miracle, on the level of healing the Blight. In fact, it may be more arduous than it ever was for Nerevar himself, as we have had many more millennia to quarrel and grow disconnected.”

“And I’m not a diplomat. I mean, I can’t even stop the Thieves Guild and Camonna from trying to slit each other's throats.  
What about this ‘unmourned tribe’ nonsense?”

“The sixth trial. It is evasive, but it _could_ , ostensibly, be House Dagoth. It was, with the exception of Dagoth Ur, exterminated at the Battle of Red Mountain, the legends say. However, the dwemer are also a potential candidate, as they were old allies of the dunmer, before allying with our invaders.  
Either way, it’s nigh impossible. To eat one’s sin is to atone, which seems like a complex and improbable mission to achieve. How does one make the dead redeem themselves? Is there a ritual involved or momentous effort?”

Jollain snorts and gestures helplessly.  
“I mean…that’s pretty much every fucking trial so far. There’s one more, though, right?”

“Yes, the final, which doubtlessly involve the cursed false gods, those which the house mer refer to as the ‘Tribunal’. The tribes have no respect for their conniving and deceitful ways. They are no more than foul sorcerers, necromancers and misleading killers. The Nerevarine’s task is to plunge them into the darkness of obscurity and take away their mistaken deified status.”

Not knowing what to do with herself, Jollain laughs in disbelief.  
“Heal curses, immortality, unite the entire nation and now kill gods. This is fucking insane.”

“To bind the broken must refer to Nerevar’s promise which the ashlanders were deprived of, to honor our ways and laws. And that is all I know about the Seven Trials.”

Vaziri lifts an attentive finger into the air.  
“You mentioned Lost Prophecies earlier? Is this another forgotten element?”

Nibani exhales disappointedly.  
“Regrettably, yes. They are sections of the narrative which most know neither the location nor the composition of. There are said to be many, both erased and hidden.”  
She’s a second away from ending her explanation, but halts her own progress, when another tidbit prods her memory.  
“That said, I have heard, through hearsay, that a group known as the Dissident Priests may know more. Some claim that these separatists have performed extensive studies and efforts to preserve abandoned knowledge. They could have the truth, somewhere in their repositories.”

Jollain places a hand on her ponytail, distracting herself by fastening it.  
“Guess that implies we might have a future goal, if Caius insists we pursue this absolutely meaningless quest.”

Two of her companions seem ambivalent regarding their opinions of Jollain’s dismissal. Tay, on the other hand, is a small bit saddened. She obviously wanted there to be a hint at the potential, even if she fears what it signifies.  
“I don’t suppose it needs to be asked or said, but I presume you don’t believe Jollain is the Nerevarine.”

Nibani now directs her attention fully to the team, specifically on the inquirer.  
“Correct, I don’t.”

Jollain’s tension and fear is gradually subsiding. This whole ordeal and upheaval of emotions have been onerous to endure.  
“Good riddance and thank the Divines. No offense or anything, but this has been a fucking experience and I-“

“Right now, that is”, Nibani interrupts flatly.

This halts not just Jollain’s reprieve, but restores the others’ queries.  
“…excuse me?”, asks the bosmer. “But you said…”

“Yes. I don’t, at this very moment, believe you are the Nerevarine; I don’t believe anyone is. However, you are one of many that might _become_ the incarnate.”

Jollain’s gaze darts around searchingly and she feels utterly bewildered.  
“Wait, you’re…you’re not making any sense. Doesn’t the trial state that Nerevar is ‘reborn’? As in, already conceived as the incarnate?”

“It’s a mystery, an elaborate and complicated enigma, quite purposefully so. The trials are like a puzzle which must be solved, and while you have found a piece or two, more must be collected.” She looks deeply into Jollain’s eyes now, a shimmer of the previous solemnity entering her own.  
“Do you have the required faith to be the person which the prophecies seek? If so, then pursue the legend. They are called _trials_ for a reason. The Nerevarine, whomever this identity truly belongs to, must prove and test themselves, in order to be found.  
Should you acquire the Lost Prophecies, bring them here and I would be more than willing to act as your guide, to open your mind and spirit to the gateway of twilight.”

And so, all hope of being rid of this nonsensical crap has evaporated. It appears their travels will survive and the hunt for the Nerevarine has only just begun. Jollain, in her frustration, hurriedly exits the tent, cursing the gods and fate.


	17. Blessed in isolation

Copper strands stir in the ashen-filled breeze that sweeps across the barren fields, left in solitude and silence, except for the ghostly howls of the sea. Despite a desperate hunt, there is nothing in this land which can provide the answers, the hope she yearns for. Discretion and secrecy is lauded here, a reservoir for ancient ponderings, but not of hope for escape. That avenue may have forever been struck from her future.

An hour has gone by since the meeting with Nibani and the group has, for the time being, remained in the vicinity of the Urshilaku camp, which they will do for at least another day.  
Maak, Tayerise and Vaziri discussed alternatives with Sul-Matuul and managed to get permission to rest in the safety of the tribe’s territory, though no yurts were granted to them. They may use the campfires, but have to sleep in their own tents.

In the meantime, Jollain has not been spotted inside the camp, not during the deliberations. She hasn’t exactly vanished or anything, as she still roams nearby, but she has preferred to remain secluded.  
Well…almost. While she chose to avoid speaking with anyone else, she gladly allowed little Amnet to join her stroll through the ash wastes. Despite her sour mood in the aftermath of the Nerevarine discussion, the guar somehow has an innate ability to cheer her up, however minor, due to his own sunny disposition. He loves to play and it’s almost like he understands that she needs someone like him.

After the arrangements have been made, Tay wanders in the direction of where Jollain was last spotted and as she arrives, she witnesses how her girlfriend is currently playing, to a certain extent, with Amnet, using whatever objects they can find in the grime and dust. Jollain has apparently managed to procure a barren stick of some variety, hardened by what it has endured in this landscape. She uses it to play fetch with the guar, occasionally tossing it several meters away and Amnet eagerly chases after and brings it back.

For the next throw, Jollain uses a little further energy and it flies farther than it previously did, almost landing on top of another creature, which is simply passing by on a journey through the Ashlands. It’s some form of bug, moderately smaller than a shalk, seemingly without fire magic capabilities. It becomes rather curious of the item that plonked down out of nowhere, however, and goes to investigate. Amnet slows when he arrives and begins to sniff the insect, finding the creature somewhat fascinating, until it attempts to seize his toy. That’s the moment he tries to push it away with his large feet.

While Amnet wrestles with his ‘issue’, Tay closes in on her beloved. If Jollain has noticed this fact, she doesn’t physically acknowledge or divulge her discovery. Her arms remain folded, staring quietly at the Sea of Ghosts.  
Tay halts a few meters to the side, clears her throat and speaks cautiously.  
“We have acquired sleeping arrangements in the camp, so we won’t have to sleep alone. Tonight, anyway.”

Jollain’s response is delayed by a few seconds.  
“Good.”

That’s all she’s willing to express, apparently, and she doesn’t sound particularly interested. Tay can’t ignore the apprehension which gnaws at her chest and mind. Sections of her will instructs her to simply walk up and take Jollain’s hand, to show that she’s here. The bosmer is implicitly begging for this support, isn’t she?  
And yet…there are no overt signals that discloses whether this would be advantageous, or even desired. Best to stay mindful.

“How are you doing, Jollain? You kind of just…left.”

The bosmer takes a deep breath, trying to determine her state of mind before she can relay it.  
“Annoyed, I guess. Kinda frustrated too, with what we went through in that yurt.”

“With…the prophecy?”

“With everything.” Jollain sighs briefly. “I just thought that, like, whatever would transpire, at least it’d be conclusive, you know? Either a straight yes or no, confirmation or denial. Not this insanely aggravating ‘maybe, maybe not’ scenario that we’re in. It bothers the shit out of me.”

Tay nods slowly, a look of sorrow slipping into her eyes and perhaps a smidgen of guilt.  
“It’s vexing, I know. I’m sorry that it had to end like this.”

This statement apparently draws Jollain’s attention and she shakes her head while she stares at her girlfriend.  
“Cease that crap, Tay. I didn’t say it’s your fault. It’s…the Emperor, the gods, fate, Azura, life…whatever.”

The dunmer didn’t mean to claim all of the blame, of course, but she also can’t ignore that she has maintained a measure of hope, that the stories may be true. If Jollain truly is the hero of legend, how will Tamriel change?  
“It does feel as if we are trapped, you most of all.”

Jollain doesn’t provide an instant reply, as she sinks into the depths of introspection. She lets them linger in stillness for at least another minute, before she unveils more reflections.  
“I’ve been thinking. Or…’reminiscing’ might be a better word.”

“About?”

“Parallels and discarded ideas.” Tay arches her brow in an inquisitive manner, though she chooses to wait until Jollain continues. “You already know I grew up in the Imperial City and how life there isn’t…ideal. For those who aren’t rich, especially non-humans, it’s a pretty grueling life. What makes that even less tolerable is when you have no one to depend on or trust.  
There was this…small local event that they celebrated in the capital and its surrounding regions every now and then – the Grace of Arkay.”

Tay considers the name and lifts a hand to scratch her cheek in thought. What was it the books she read recently told her?  
“Uh…that’s the god of death, right?”

“Sort of. He’s a god of cycles, both life and death. He’s sometimes associated with the coming and going of seasons too. The celebration is meant to give thanks to elders and parents. Essentially, it’s a familial holiday, to create a sense of harmony and unity. The children express their gratitude to their parents for bringing life and the parents offer their love, which will last into death.”

Tay looks troubled, immediately seeing the angle.  
“Ah. That…must have been difficult.”

Jollain shrugs casually.  
“I recall being a naïve, dumb little brat back then, who kept making assumptions and fearing the worst, because of my circumstances.  
At the time, I was studying with a generous priestess of Mara. She was this nice old breton, who wanted to show her goddess’ compassion by teaching a bunch of orphaned kids how to read, write and count. Did that every year.”  
While still allowing her arms to be partially folded, she raises one hand to brush a few fingers over her lips.  
“During most of her lessons, I was…well, maybe not the most attentive, but definitely expressive. This was why she noticed how I came into class very quietly one day. I looked sad pretty much the entire time and afterwards, she asked me what was amiss. Took a while for me to explain, before I got into the whole problem with the festival.”

“The…lack of a family?”

Jollain grows ambivalent, and she appears to be on the verge of ending her story here, but then discards that notion. She has to persevere, and in the process, the memory develops, gaining a more stable character. She can almost hear herself making that query.  
“More than that. I asked her if…if my lack of parents meant that I was unlovable. Was that why my parents didn’t want me?  
The priestess was obviously filled with perceived sympathy and explained to me that it wasn’t the case. She gave me the whole spiel of ‘anything might’ve happened, we can’t speculate about the truth’. Maybe they’re dead, an accident occurred, life grew too arduous blah blah…”  
She gestures with her hand, looking unimpressed, but this notion eventually subsides.  
“After that, she told me a tale. In hindsight, this was probably something she spun in the spur of the moment, to comfort me somehow.”

Tay tilts her head curiously.  
“What was the story about?”

“It…was a fairytale of sorts. She said there are legends about people who are born without parents being the children of the Divines themselves. ‘They were placed on Tamriel’s soil to bless, purify and guide mortals onto the right path, where they might otherwise grow astray. They are Nirn’s conscience personified’.” Jollain almost recites it word for word and it surprises her.  
“Huh. Weird that I still remember all that.  
Anyway, she mentioned that there are myths which claim Tiber Septim himself was born without parents, for the gods conceived him to lead men and mer alike back to the pious and undivided course.” She snorts. “A bunch of that is obviously just nonsense, especially since the Empire hasn’t exactly been a perfect entity that grants improved life for all its citizens.”

Tay inclines her head, not intending to argue with the final section of the explanation.  
“True, but that is a fascinating possibility. I didn’t even know myths like that existed.”

“Heh, yeah. In a way, it’s kinda ironic.” She throws a glance in Tay’s direction. “If only she knew, huh? Wonder what that old lady would’ve told me if I said I might be some long lost dunmer hero who probably worshiped daedra. Would’ve shrieked about heresy, I guess.”

Despite the bitter tone, Tay smiles faintly.  
“It’s still a sweet tale, whether true or not.”

“Yeah, on that, we can agree.” Her eyes divert to the ocean once more, the nigh endless expanse of water and mists. “Gave me solace for a year or two, before I forgot about it. To be honest, I would’ve preferred the prospect of neglectful parents over being some godchild.”

The joy from the warrior’s expression disperses, but is replaced by contemplation.  
“Do you ever…lament the reality of having lost your parents? That you could’ve grown up in their company?”

Jollain gives this question some thought instead of leaping into it, scrutinizing her own feelings on the subject. It’s been many years since she even let them enter her mind.  
“It’s not really so much about ‘loss’ as…absence. I never knew my parents, didn’t know if they existed to begin with and I never had a family. I didn’t miss something I hadn’t experienced.  
I always believed, pretty much until this stupid debacle started, that I was a nobody, unwanted and dumped by whatever people gave birth to me. For a while I…became comfortable with it, in a cynical sort of way. That made it less difficult, you know? At least it’d mean they were emotionless shitheads and I wouldn’t have to care.  
But now, that’s all been turned upside down. I’m not sure what to believe anymore.”

This wave of doom and gloom coming over them is growing to intense levels and it’s something Tay can’t accept, especially when it involves her beloved. She closes what sliver of distance still lingers between them and wraps an arm around Jollain.  
“I don’t know who your parents were, but you have a family now, Jollain. You have us.”

Jollain pauses her melancholy and looks up at the dunmer. A wistful smile forms and she intertwines their fingers.  
“Yeah. Probably better than I deserve too.”

In the distance, they note how Amnet has chased the bug away and recaptures his stick, which he picks up triumphantly. Shortly thereafter, he glances around in a disoriented fashion, realizing he forgot where he was and can’t see his companions. He searches frantically, almost on the verge of shouting, until he finally spots his mothers. He quickly veers towards them and comes running excitedly.

Jollain’s expression grows.  
“You know, if we survive this whole madness and regain some kind of normalcy…let’s get more guar.”

Tay’s face mirrors this emotion.  
“Friends for Amnet, you mean?”

“Yeah. Grow a little guar family.”

“Mm. Sounds nice. And, well…” She tenderly strokes her thumb at the back of Jollain’s hand. “Maybe we can…adopt other youngsters at some point. If we can handle guar, children shouldn’t be impossible, right?”

Jollain chuckles and shakes her head.  
“Not so sure about that. Feels like I’d be a terrible mother.”

“Untrue. You more than anyone would understand their rebellious side.”

“Tsk. I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _That's the secret of this fic - Amnet is the real hero. By being cute and making people happy._


	18. Spurned sanctity

Balmora. Safety. Warmth. Home.  
Must’ve been weeks since the team set out on their extended trek to the north, the longest absence Jollain has ever had since she moved to the Hlaalu-owned city and she never knew exactly how accustomed she had grown to its many facets. The poignant smell from her neighbor’s kitchen likely cooking alit soup, the wailing of the silt striders, the patrolling guards along the Odai river or the twinkling of the Temple’s grandiose exterior. Those are manifestations of everyday life in this place, aspects that settle her heart and slow her rushing anxiety. Despite what presumably awaits them, Jollain is relieved.

She’s currently outside, under the dark open sky of late evening, doing a bit of stargazing on the roof of a building she managed to climb onto. She can be rather nimble, after all, and Hlaalu architecture isn’t difficult to conquer.  
Though her claim is only partially true, for the actual purpose awaits several houses away, locked behind a shabby door and its deteriorating numbers. An individual will emerge soon and Jollain will be here on that very minute.

Once they snuck past the threshold of the city, Maak-Veh was quick to act, demanding that their khajiiti tagalong come with him. She had consented to a personal interview with members of the Blades, which meant the ever-suspicious minds of both the argonian and Caius. Though, ‘interview’ might be too lenient of a term – interrogation is probably more suitable, in this occasion. Jollain felt it was a bit too zealous, but her protests were waylaid by Vaziri herself, who had no qualms about the procedure. She had nothing to-…  
Okay, maybe she does have some secrets she’d never divulge, but her motives in this endeavor were at least pure, and she intended to prove it.

While Jollain told her girlfriend to get back home and prepare some food, she remained outside, to wait and see the results of this confrontation and make sure they weren’t mistreating Vaziri, despite not being allowed to attend the examination. The khajiit is her arcane mentor, after all, and possibly her friend. Vaziri is jeopardizing much to help them, and she hopes her superiors remember this.  
It takes an hour at most, until Vaziri finally exits the house in solitude. The khajiit appears mildly fatigued by the experience, but not enough to be broken.

When Vaziri pulls up her hood and prepares to slip into the shadows of alleyway, Jollain leaps down from the roof and waves her over.  
“Sera Jollain”, she notes, with slight surprise in her voice. “You were waiting for me?”

The bosmer crosses her arms and leans sideways into a house wall.  
“’course. Wanted to be sure you’d be alright. They didn’t harass you too much, did they?”

Faint notions of amusement glimmer in the khajiit’s eyes, but she shakes her head.  
“I am well”, she confirms, “though your allies are certainly…meticulous. That imperial, Caius, was definitely the more suspicious of the two. I suppose ser Maak-Veh’s leniency may be indicative of his familiarity with me.”

“Yeah, that sounds feasible. And don’t mind Caius. He can be a bit of an ass, but he’s decent once you get to know ‘im. Not the worst boss in the world.  
Did he offer you a job?”

Vaziri rejects the query with another swerve.  
“He did not, but he has agreed to permit my continued association with your team and current mission. He said he shall ponder extended cooperation in the aftermath, but has not yet decided. Your vouching and Maak-Veh’s concession that I am not a threat to your success appears to have convinced him.”

This claim brings a confident smirk to Jollain’s lips and she throws a casual salute.  
“Happy to be of service.” Her face softens shortly after and she closes the distance to pat her teacher’s arm.  
“I hope we’ll see each other soon again. You’re fun to have around, Vaz.”

The khajiit snorts at the nickname, one that Jollain has used very sparingly. A hint of her comfort, perhaps?  
“I insist that we do. I certainly do not wish to be left out of the conclusion to this quest.”

Jollain chuckles.  
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep in touch. As soon as we get the next stage of this absolutely bonkers ordeal, I’ll send a message your way.”

Vaziri dips her head slightly.  
“Thank you. I hear in your voice that you do not share the enthusiasm displayed by many others. I understand you still do not see the appeal in your potential, Jollain, but I sincerely hope you won’t dismiss it. This may herald a new era for Morrowind, Azurah willing.”

The constant insistence of this revolution does nothing but conjure exhaustion in Jollain. She offers a vexed shrug.  
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one having to perform about half a dozen miracles to prove your worth.”

It’s Vaziri turn to support now, by squeezing the bosmer’s shoulder.  
“You won’t be alone, Jollain. We are here, all of us, to assist you. Personally, I intend to stay in Balmora for the time being.”

“Oh, really? And that won’t get you in trouble with the Tong?”

“Not in the least. They may have stringent rules and tenets, but they have never been particularly strict regarding schedules or constant contact. As long as I do not get in any trouble, especially revolving Vvardenfell’s politics, I am free to act as I please.”

“If you say so. I’ll come find you when it’s go time, then.”

Jollain sticks around this section of the city for a while, until Vaziri decides to leave the vicinity and make her way to the nearest inn. She watches the khajiit go, ensuring that nothing happens to her friend. Despite the incessant chatter about her destiny or whatever, Jollain is glad Vaziri is with them. She may be an assassin by profession, but there are few people that Jollain has put so much trust in, matched only be Tayerise and Maak.

However, the moment she considers heading back home, due to the growling of her belly, a weird feeling restricts her movements, drawing her attention away. This sensation is familiar, like an ominous wind that has brushed her before and sends chills up her spine. Yet again, her body is alerting her to the fact that she’s potentially being watched, and this is far from the first time this has transpired. In fact, she’d even go so far as to opine it’s getting eerily frustrating.

As she has begun to trust these instincts, she spins and veers towards one of the adjacent alleyways in this city block. Due to her general affinity for the night, she can spot the contours of a person, looming in the shadows. It is ostensibly a dunmer, dressed in civilian clothing, which means she can at least rule out the fear of guards spying on her. If she squints, she believes she can determine more facts, like this being a man with ashen skin and red hair, but she can’t recall his characteristics from any previous encounters.

What’s worse, even if she’s now looking right at him, he doesn’t do or say anything. He merely stares silently. It’s growing to creepy levels and Jollain swallows to keep her apprehension quelled.  
“I see you, f’lah. What’s wrong? What do you want?”

Nothing to begin with, which agitates her and she’s now seriously contemplating just leaving this location behind and head into the safety of her home and Tay’s arms. But that’s when the stillness shatters.  
“Sleeper…” He utters in a slow and raspy voice.

If she got chills earlier, her veins are now starting to properly freeze.  
“What did you say?”

“We sense you…Sleeper. The dream beckons.”

Unconsciously, she takes a step back and rests a hand at the hilt of her blade.  
“Who…who in Oblivion are you?”

She divulges the panic in her voice now, even if she desperately tried to rein it in. In reaction, he finally leaves the confines of the darkness and approaches her steadily, though his stride concerns her. He wanders in an uncannily rigid manner, arms and legs barely bending.  
“The Lord has spoken, Sleeper.”

“Who?”

“The Lord of the Mountain has called for you. Why will you not heed his call? Why do you resist?”  
His voice is forebodingly adamant too, like her mistake is self-evident.

“W-what the fuck are you talking about? Lord? I…I don’t know who that’s supposed to be!”  
His pace now quickens, while she attempts to back off. Seeing no alternative, she unsheathes one of her short swords.  
“Stay away! I don’t want anything to do with your lord.”

“He is our Lord, the Father of all. He sleeps, but when he wakes, we shall all rise from this dream, in unity, in _elation_. Why do you ignore your calling?”

She suddenly recognizes what he’s referring to.  
“Wait, are you-…it’s the nightmares, isn’t it? The sick madness in those ancient halls? You’ve…seen them too?”

“We all see, Sleeper, all rejoice. All are welcome.”

The distance between them is now getting unnervingly small and at this range, she can observe his eyes, how vacant they are, like he’s not truly present. Could he be asleep, or drugged in some fashion? Doesn’t exactly look like the effects of skooma, but…  
“I said stay back, dammit!” Her other hand does not remain dormant, but instead of grabbing another weapon, she summons lightning into her fingers.  
“I will never listen to that deranged bastard, you hear me? No matter how much he pleads.”

Sadly, as if being compelled by an invocation, more spellbound people exit from other nearby pathways, both behind her and at the flanks. She’s surrounded and there’s close to a dozen of them.  
“You cannot”, one blurts in a flat tone.

“The Father beckons”, says a second.

“Our Lord shall not be denied”, adds a third.

The initial dunmer who stumbled out of the shadows begins to articulate with more fervor.  
“The true House, the one that shall unite all pure dunmer and devotees of heart, cries out for consolidation. You must follow the decree.”

“I won’t”, she declares with an ardent tone. “I never will. Don’t any of you see what the fuck is going on? He’s controlling you! You have to stop listening to his lies. Whatever that foul creature is, his promises aren’t real!”

“Deception”, is the retort, but she’s not done.

“No! The only dishonesty here is from that manipulator. You must stand tall and resist! If you don’t, he’s going to claim all of you, turn you into…monsters. He doesn’t care for any dunmer or Morrowind.”

Regrettably, her pleas fall on deaf ears. Perhaps these people are already under his control. Is there nothing left of them?  
“You will join the House, outlander, or you will be purged, swept from this land. Why do you deny destiny?”

She frowns and clenches her hand around the weapon.  
“Because my life is my own, not some deluded power-hungry asshole.”

Finally having enough of their constricting actions, she casts a particular spell and creates a field of lightning on a location close to her, sending sparks and crackling energy in several directions and those who stand in its vicinity quickly retreat.  
Sadly, this doesn’t include the whole bunch and two individuals lunge at her from behind, attempting to tackle and wrestle her to the ground.

Jollain isn’t a slow nor weak prey, however, and therefore struggles with all her might. She manages to elbow one, picks up her blade and pummels another with the hilt, prior to kicking a third in the chest, all of it to create space for herself. She could probably massacre the whole lot of them if she truly wished, or slaughter a few to scare off the rest, but…she can’t do it. In essence, they’re like her, aren’t they? They suffer visions and intruding hallucinations they never asked for.

Thankfully, she’s not alone. A wave of kinetic energy bursts into a section of the attackers, slamming them to the ground with pure force and attracts attention from others, including Jollain.  
Vaziri comes walking with fierce and purposeful steps, summoning a ball of fire into her hand.  
“I don’t know what it is with you and nightly assailants, Jollain, but I will gladly singe these fools for you.”

Despite their trance, some of the Sleepers look fearful at the display and starts to withdraw.  
“Wait!”, Jollain calls out. “Don’t kill them, Vaz. They’re not enemies, just…don’t have a choice.”

The khajiit exudes a faintly disappointed emotion to begin with, before she acquiesces. She alters her spell and emits a cone of fire instead, to frighten them. The maneuver is successful, and they swiftly flee the street.  
Her initial aggressor has a few last words for her.  
“This is not over, outlander! The Lord shall grant only punishment to those who spurn his gifts! You will regret such treachery!”

There’s hardly any opportunity for a retort, but Jollain doesn’t care. Vaziri walks up to her and examines her stance.  
“Are you okay?”

The bosmer dusts off her clothes.  
“Bit shaken, I guess, but I’ll live.”

“What occurred here? Who were they?”

“I don’t really know”, she says and then peers in the direction where sounds of running can be traced.  
“I think…whatever disaster is affecting Morrowind, it’s gonna get a lot worse before it gets better. If it ever will, that is.”


	19. Bite in the dark

_The word had been sent. After no more than a few days of relaxing, Caius had requested the group’s presence once more and they had to comply. Despite previous distrust aimed at the khajiit, he had not refused her entry when Jollain sent for her, though it’s hard to tell what hampered his protests the most – agreement on her value or a wish to avoid arguing with Jollain? If she had to be honest, the bosmer wouldn’t really blame him for either and she was satisfied with the conclusion regardless._

_When they entered, the old man was already exceedingly busy with his own work, perusing various reports and preparing documents to be delivered all across the isle. The charade as a skooma dealer felt like a distant memory._  
_He only briefly looked up from his current activity and swept his eyes over the group, before he continued._  
_“Ah, you’re all here. Good. I dispatched an agent to Vivec City yesterday. He’s gonna relay a message to Mehra. I hope she’ll have some answers for me regarding the Lost Prophecies and the Dissident Priests. Once I get a reply, I’ll let you know.”_

_The group glanced among themselves and confused expressions were conjured onto each member._  
_“So, wait, you’re not sending us?”, Jollain asked._

_Caius stalled for a few seconds, as if reluctant to reveal the truth, but he had no other option. This was the road they had to walk. He then took a deep breath and dived right in._  
_“Sadly, no. This would probably be a much simpler and less straining activity after your long journey, but I have another assignment for your team. I recently received a report from Buckmoth, an urgent one, and I need you to go there.”_

_Maak-Veh folded his arms and considered the words chosen._  
_“That’s another journey to the north. Do you have details?”_

_“No, but you’ll receive them once you get there.” He turned towards them, the gravity of the situation being displayed on his expression. “Trust me when I say that this is a matter of great concern to imperial security, one that we’ve had to deal with for a few years now, but might finally have a solution to. Legate Svalen has been dispatched to the fort and she’ll fill you in on the rest. You operate with the Emperor’s full authority, so listen to what she has to say and then deal with the complications.”_  


* * *

  
Disarray and apprehension. That’s the type of situation the group enters once they finally approach the gates to Fort Buckmoth.  
After having taken a special silt strider run to drop them off outside the imperial outpost, the team did not have any difficulty to identify the structure. Imperial strongholds of any kind across Vvardenfell have a very particular architectural design and they often copy each other, mostly to make it simpler to construct – high stone walls, broad battlements at the top, thick gridded steel gates and swaying banners with the red dragon symbols on several notable locations. The main difference between Moonmoth and Buckmoth is the size. This area is somewhat smaller, certainly less so than Ebonheart, the main imperial outpost on Vvardenfell, though this fort is much more reinforced than many dunmer settlements. They also can’t ignore the environment that it’s been placed in, as they’re currently at the border of the Ashlands.

Gaining permission to enter isn’t difficult when they flash the correct credentials and upon entry, they run into Asta within one of the offices placed in the central complex. There are a bunch of legionnaires receiving instructions and orders at this time, and though she always maintains a strict exterior, Jollain can easily distinguish the small signs of unease upon the Legate. She has probably spent too much time around that old woman by now.

The group slips into the office and prepare themselves to wait, but as soon as Asta notes their presence, she changes demeanor.  
“Alright, we will continue this later. You all still have assignments to perform, so I suggest you get to them. Dismissed.”  
The soldiers salute her and then depart. Each of them displays similar vague indications of doubt. Asta waits until the entire squad has disappeared and the door shuts, before she turns to her new guests. Her arms are folded and she’s standing close to a wooden desk, though definitely not her own. Bemusement fills her eyes.  
“What’s this about? Caius sent the whole team?” She steers her gaze towards the khajiit. “The assassin too? He must be desperate.”

Jollain pushes herself away from the wall and shakes her head.  
“It’s not like that. Vaz is part of our overarching mission. She’ll be with us for a while, perhaps longer.”

Maak strolls ahead and halts a few meters away from the nord, placing his arms behind him.  
“Caius sent us to deal with some form of issue in this region, but he told us you’d provide the specifics.”

This revelation appears to confuse the Legate.  
“What? Caius seriously expects you to deal with this? I’m not sure that’s wise and-“  
She stops herself before she goes too far.  
“But, I’m not going to argue with an agent of the Emperor. If he says you can fix this, well…guess that’s your problem.”

“So, what’s up?”, Jollain wonders. “He said something about a security snag?”

Asta snorts in slight amusement, before she walks up to the desk.  
“It’s not that simple. We’ve been attacked.”

Well, that’s certainly direct, even if it mostly raises alertness and worry.  
“Attacked? Uh, like, by an enemy force?”, asks Tayerise.

“No, nothing like that, but it could definitely be seen as an act of war. It would in any other situation, but the source of this transgression is quite foggy.”  
She breathes in slowly, folds her arms and sits down at the edge of the desk.  
“Legate Raesa Pullia, commander of Fort Buckmoth and regional leader of the Imperial Legion’s forces in the Ashlands, has been murdered. She and a contingent of troops were assaulted on the path between Caldera and Buckmoth, after she was returning from a visit to speak with representatives of the mining company.”

After she pauses, silence slowly clogs the room, as the entire group is very aware of how troublesome this is. It’s not like no imperials ever die up here, quite the contrary. Soldiers do, every now and then, fall due to clashes with various native groups, but such unfortunate outcomes are usually a result of battle. Outright assassination, particularly of high-ranked officers, is incredibly rare.  
“Right, okay”, Jollain eventually says with uncertainty blatant in her voice. “So uh, do we have a culprit? It wasn’t…the Tong, right?”

She hears a sharp snort from Vaziri’s direction.  
“Do not be ridiculous, sera Jollain. My organization would never target imperials of such importance, unless under extreme conditions. We operate under the law and realize just how perilous it would be to get in trouble with the Legion.”

“She’s right”, Asta blurts, “and we don’t suspect them. No, the ones who killed Raesa could only be one group, based on the…mark carved into the Legate’s chest.”

The faces of both Maak and Jollain grow grim.  
“Was it…?”, the latter asks, but doesn’t dare to finish.

“The same bastards who have targeted various important imperials for the last couple of years? Sadly, yes.” She sighs and rubs her nose with her hand. “It’s getting worse with every passing month it seems and the sight of her was…gruesome.  
But that’s not the only piece of news I’ve got. Since you and I last spoke about this, Jollain, I’ve conducted a lot more research into this group and the intel just gets direr the deeper we dug. After another a few months ago, we were able to deduce that the ones behind the attack was very likely connected to the smugglers calling themselves the ‘Sixth House’. After cross-checking with other investigations, I’m now almost a hundred percent positive that they are the crooks behind this tragedy too. It appears they’re not just smugglers, but also assassins and potentially cultists, following some twist of the local faith that diverts from the Tribunal.”

Instead of mere shock and horror, Asta gets to witness how the team before her, especially Jollain and Tay, share knowing glances.  
“Yes, we have…encountered them before”, Tay admits. “We are pretty confident that the one they worship is Dagoth Ur, the core of evil in the Tribunal faith.”

The Legate appears incredulous at first, scanning the expressions on the people before her, but they don’t relent.  
“Really? Well, that…corresponds with our information and doesn’t soothe me in the slightest. Just more trouble we have to deal with…  
After the attack, the fort was able to send a patrol to track this section of the Sixth House in the direction of Gnaar Mok, a small village along the Bitter Coast. I arrived here shortly before they got back, but sadly, that mission was quite a failure as well. A dozen soldiers departed, but only one of them returned, an Auxiliary, and he died soon after. His body was…horrifically distorted by the corprus disease.”

“Corprus?”, Maak repeats. “How did he contract it?”

“We’re not entirely sure. His mind was near shattered and his body was on the verge of consuming itself, but he did manage to provide us with some information. Apparently, they located more members of the Sixth House somewhere outside of Gnaar Mok, including a shrine and some form of leader, a priest or prophet. Our trooper mentioned a cavern on the coast, called Ilunibi.”

“A cavern with a title? Curious and foreboding”, Vaziri remarks. “You do not give names to such places unless they are important. Do you know where it is?”

“Regrettably, we don’t. It’s not on our maps. If you actually intend to go there, you’d have to speak with the locals. Maybe they’ve got more knowledge.  
Moreover, this squad ostensibly fought with a whole heap of cultists and disfigured creatures, possibly blighted beasts, which availed them little. They fled the attack, but got lost in the cave. They eventually encountered this priest or whatever it was called, one who was said to be named Dagoth Gares. Our soldier claimed that this one slew several members of the patrol singlehandedly, except this final survivor. This wasn’t without purpose, as Gares wanted to leave a message for us.”

“What message?”, Jollain asks.

Asta furrows her brow and turns to the desk, looking around among a bunch of notebooks and scrolls.  
“I wrote it down. It was here somewhere…ah, here we go.” She finds a piece of paper and then reads directly from it.  
“It was directed towards us and basically anyone who associates with us. ‘The Sleeper Awakens. The Sixth House has risen. Dagoth Ur is Lord, and I am his Priest. All will be One with Him in the Flesh’.” Afterwards, Asta drops the paper on the desk, crosses her arms and shrugs.  
“From what our man conveyed, he awakened outside the caverns after this and rapidly fled back to the fort, like an instinct. We could hardly recognize him because of the sickness and he didn’t respond to our questions. He merely gave us this information before he…expired.”

The initial sensation in the group prior to arrival was interest, as they wondered what could be so important for Caius to send them all here, but that quickly transformed into anxiety upon noticing the disorder. Now, none of them can claim to be undisturbed by the truth. Jollain is the most disheartened and she has to control her breathing, as she relives a few particular memories – both the nightmares and the run-in with the Sleepers.

The one who can be described as the most tranquil is Maak, as always. Maintaining his cool in stressful scenarios is a skill he has likely honed for years. He strokes his claws in thought over the scales under his jaw and along his neck.  
“Hmm. This cavern you spoke of, you know nothing about it at all?”

Asta shakes her head.  
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it, but Vvardenfell is a big place. There are hundreds of different caves, ruins and ancient tombs. The Legion hasn’t exactly had time to explore every nook and cranny. From what little we discerned of the Auxiliary’s rambling though, it does appear to be a fairly extensive underground system. That must’ve been why they were so disoriented.”

“And the Sixth House hasn’t tried to message you in any other way?”, Vaziri inquiries.

“What, like official statements? No, they haven’t, and we wouldn’t expect them to. Based on how zealously they’ve assaulted us in the past, I assume they’re some kind of cult. They rarely need explanations or contacts.”  
She stops for a moment to run her hand over her cheeks, pondering what she’s about to say.  
“Look, I know you’re probably just following Caius’ orders, but…if you want my advice, I think you should stay away from that hive and let us work out a plan. I would go with you to investigate it, but the rest of the officers are fussing over me, trying to convince me to stay in the confines of the fort until they’ve better secured the road. It’s stupid and annoying that they think I would fall so easily, but I’ve bowed to their wishes…for now. I won’t let something like this attack stand for long, though.”

Asta’s aggravation actually makes Jollain smile a little, despite the harrowing angle at play here.  
“You know, I’m not usually a girl who agrees with soldiers, but in this case, they’ve got a point. For the time being, it’s probably best if you linger here where it’s safe. I mean, if they _do_ wanna kill important imperial officers, you’re one of the juiciest targets.”

The Legate views her skeptically and rolls her eyes.  
“What is it with you people and distrusting my abilities?”

“We aren’t, but we just don’t-…well, at least _I_ don’t want any harm to come to you, mom. I care about you.”

It’s not like they haven’t heard it before, but it’s at least somewhat unusual for Jollain to be so open with that nickname. The rest of the team find it humorous, while Asta’s irritation, and perhaps slight embarrassment, grows.  
“Jollain…”

“Listen, don’t worry about it. The Legion should leave this to us. Caius trusts in our capabilities and we’ve got a much more diverse set of skills than your troops.”

“Hmm. I admit that you are all very adept in combat, which we saw in our fight against Camonna, but do you understand how dangerous this truly is? An entire dozen soldiers didn’t stand a chance. This is a death trap.”

Luckily, Maak interferes here too.  
“I concur with Jollain. We cannot only strike with more efficiency, but also move silently through the darkness, should we choose to. Our team is perfect for infiltration of this type.”

“Besides”, Vaziri adds, “they have something your Legionnaires did not – two skillful magic users. Jollain’s impressive control of destruction spells, coupled with my ability to conjure wards and shields to protect us, will make a real difference.”

“Especially if we go with a single-file tactic”, Tay opines. “It’d be quite beneficial and reduce causalities.”

The tallest and oldest person in the room stands and listens quietly as they offer their opinions. Asta knows she doesn’t really have any say in this matter, but that won’t prevent her from speaking.  
“Maak-Veh, let me at least dispatch one detachment of troops with you. It’d alleviate my doubts.”

The argonian merely lifts his hand in rejection of this idea.  
“I’m sorry, Legate, but we have to do this alone. We work better in this fashion and I also feel uncomfortable about potentially sacrificing more lives.”

“Sacrificing? But what about yours?”

Jollain smiles slyly, wanders up to the nord’s side and playfully elbows her arm.  
“Worried ‘bout us, mom?”

Asta frowns at her, but her response is suspiciously delayed.  
“No, I…I merely think it’s unwise to discard such…valuable assets to the Empire. It’s a waste.”

The bosmer’s lips curl into a smirk.  
“Uh-huh, sure you do. But don’t fret, that won’t happen.” Her expression changes, gaining a faraway quality. ”I have a feeling they’re waiting for us in there. For me. They won’t attack with full force.”

This is a most odd statement to make and Asta looks perplexed.  
“What’s that supposed to mean? Why would they be waiting?”

“It’s a long story”, Tay tells her. “Just trust us. We’ve gotten involved with…some of the most convoluted plots I’ve ever seen.”

“We are also operating on the Emperor’s orders here, Legate”, Maak injects. “Best to simply let us proceed.”

Vaziri offers a polite smile.  
“If you wish, I could send a message to the Tong. Perhaps they can assist with your investigation of the area. We are more proficient at locating those of our profession, after all.”

Asta pinches her nose, contemplating how willing she is to break conventions and disobey orders. Sadly, she realizes what must be done.  
“I don’t like any of this, but I’ll get out of your hairs. Just…don’t get yourselves killed, alright? Not sure Talos would forgive me for the neglect.”

This does at least amuse Jollain, who caresses Asta’s arms.  
“Don’t worry, mom, we’ll be back again. Count on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah, Raesa is a "Champion" in the game, and she's alive, but it works better for my story to use established characters_


	20. Of his flesh

It’s inside of her. That sensation, the weird crawling and prodding. Not in the shape of an actual physical affliction, but like a mental prickling, a buzz that gets ever louder, the deeper into the darkness that they stride. The rational sections of her existence tell her to flee, to retreat into the light once more and never again tread into this pit of misery. Or perhaps that’s merely the fear attempting to strangle bravery. Nevertheless, they’re here. She knows it now.

The visit to Gnaar Mok had been brief and likely a wise outcome. It was a small port village along the Bitter Coast, similar to Hla Oad. Inconsequential and unassuming, where very little occurs.  
Most of the locals were distrustful of outsiders, outlanders or otherwise, and this disposition did not improve at all when Ilunibi was mentioned.  
To most of the villagers, it’s a cavern, sure, but deep and ominous. Every citizen that spoke with them – which, granted, wasn’t a lot – agreed that it was cursed without a doubt. Noise can apparently be heard at night in its vicinity and sometimes, shadows have been seen skulking about. Best to avoid, they said, or someone might object.

Sadly, this was not an available option for the team. They departed as soon as someone had given them a fairly accurate description of the route, though they slept and waited until daylight arrived.  
Neither the locals nor the imperial soldier that made a harrowing return had been mistaken of its attributes, for the cave is surely a sordid place, filled with all types of dangerous and treacherous elements.

Not just cursed ash beasts roam the long and dank corridors, leading downwards, but also dreaming humanoids shackled to the minds of the Sixth House and most terrifying of all – daedra creatures, a fact none of them had expected.  
Out of the group, only Maak had previously fought with the entities of Oblivion, though he reassured his companions that these were merely minor versions, nothing to be incredibly alarmed about. That hasn’t necessarily relieved anyone of distress.

The assortment of smells exuded from the cavern’s many corners isn’t fully decisive either. Sure, there’s the sour and unavoidable stench of the swamp and the anticipated mixture of death and decay, but also other, more acute odors. The pungent whiff of sulfur laced with a more chemical flavor, is a blend that only Vaziri could properly identify and she claimed it must originate from magicka dust or liquids. She encountered both varieties among House Telvanni and they still make her nose and tail bristle.

Nevertheless, opposition is harsh even now, as their onslaught into the depths of the darkness proceeds. Thankfully, due to the khajiit’s magical aptitude, they didn’t have to bring torches. She was able to conjure magical lights that drift around them, to illuminate their surroundings enough for the rest to see. She cast such a spell shortly after their made their first ambush. Figured stealth was pretty redundant when the beasts had realized they weren’t alone anymore.

The tactics they employ are fairly uncomplicated, but effective – Tayerise walks at the front as both the protector and the heaviest hitter, Jollain and Maak-Veh flank her, with Amnet backing them up and Vaziri is at the rear, offering comprehensive support.  
Tay bashes, smashes and cleaves anything in her path, almost exclusively and whenever she hits a snag, Jollain intervenes to impede their foes with her blades or lightning, or the argonian parries to let his friends counterattack. Vaziri is not well-versed in the intricacies of restoration magic, but she does her best to shield the rest whenever she can, often with simple wards or minor healing spells.

It is this magic that makes the foremost difference between their team and the imperial platoon that bumbled straight into the wet and shadowy interior. United, Jollain and her mentor are a devastating duo, nigh unstoppable.  
That said, everyone still displays clear signs of concern regarding the ash beasts. No one wants to contract the Blight, after all, and this is where they’re most at risk.

During the journey, which feels much longer than it likely is, Jollain detects how her nervousness and suspicion are constantly swelling. She gets the distinct sensation that this is a little too easy, when it clearly shouldn’t be. This is the same lair that an imperial squad got lost in and ran until they were slaughtered. And yet here her team goes, eliminating every opposition with ease. Is someone allowing their entry perhaps? That’s an exceedingly unnerving thought, but in the end, does it matter? They have to do this, regardless of the truth.

Eventually, they reach an area they believe to be the last section of Ilunibi. They’ve passed by a number of minor shabby wooden doors up until this point, but this one is different, unique. It’s larger, so that’s one new aspect, despite being made from the same material. Most of all, it’s got special markings inscribed into its surface, magical runes depicting a logo that Jollain has witnessed before and can now identify – the Sixth House. Each one of these symbols glow in a crimson red and are accompanied by a few lit candles on the ground that radiate with the same hue.

At this point, the entire group reveals hints of exhaustion, after having fought for what feels like hours. This is likely an exaggeration, embellished by their fatigue.  
“We haven’t seen these markings before”, Maak notes. “Must be a more critical area beyond it.”

“Count on it”, Vaziri agrees. “If there’s anything I learned from my time under the oppression of Telvanni’s will, it’s the significance of runes and enchantments. These ones almost reek of mystical energy.”

Tay turns to look at her.  
“Can you tell what they do?”

The khajiit slowly scans them with her eyes, though she does not possess the courage to directly touch them. That can end in disaster.  
“I’m…unsure, but I would surmise that it’s not a trap. Not one that will explode in our faces, at any rate. This is merely conjecture, of course, but an educated one.”

“Hmm. In that case, can’t we just bash it open?”

Vaziri arches her brow and one of her ears twitches skeptically.  
“A crude solution, but it shouldn’t be hazardous.”

They hear a sigh from the group leader.  
“You may prefer a direct approach, but I think a stealthier one works in our favor”, Maak tells her.

Tay shrugs at him.  
“Why would it matter now? They already know we’re here. Let’s just charge them and get the first blow.”

“She’s not wrong”, Jollain states calmly, the first words she has articulated in several minutes. The only noise they’ve heard from her is breathing and the occasional groans, while they were fighting. As they gaze at the bosmer, all of them notice how her brown eyes have gone distant, like she’s not entirely with them. She’s being affected by another facet of this realm.  
“I can…feel it.”

Maak frowns and instinctively grips his spear in a tighter hold.  
“Feel what?”

“A presence, beyond the door.”

Tay’s eyes shimmer with concern, but Maak tries to stay cool.  
“Is someone…calling for you?”

Jollain shakes her head.  
“No, nothing that tangible. I can only detect, like…a tingling at the back of my mind. As if, you know…like I can sense someone is there. This thing is watching us. Or me.”

“It has to be the dreams, right?”, Tay remarks.

“Dunno, but it’s possible.”

Vaziri folds her arms, contemplating every element of these events that Jollain has informed her of.  
“Can you distinguish any specifics? Do you believe this is a mind-controlled dreamer or sleeper?”

“Nah, this is different, I know that much. Has to be a more…uh, lucid being, for lack of a better term. More afflicted.”

Tay blinks perplexedly.  
“Wait, _more_ afflicted? How in Sotha Sil’s name does that make them saner?”

“I…can’t accurately explain it in any other way. They’re not sane, just…less unstable, I guess.”  
After a few seconds of hesitation, Jollain comes to a drastic decision. The others aren’t gonna like this one bit, but she has to propose it.  
“I should go alone.”

Interestingly, two in the group are not particularly surprised that Jollain would make this suggestion. Only Tay acts with astonishment and, obviously, protestations.  
“What?! That’s utterly ludicrous! There’s some kind of enhanced corrupted monster in there and you want to take it on by yourself? No way!”

Jollain sighs and gradually turns to face her beloved.  
“I realize it’s not exactly optimal, but this is how we have to tackle it. I get the sense that it doesn’t wanna fight anyway, just talk. Perhaps I can make it stop.”

“You _sense?_ Oh, that’s so much more reassuring then. I definitely don’t have any qualms about letting you stroll right into a bloody suicidal situation, because you _think_ it might want to have a chat.”

The bosmer furrows her brow.  
“Hey, stow the sarcasm, will ya? All of us stomping in there is not worthwhile. What if it’s dangerous? Do we wanna end up like the Legion squad?”

Unfortunately, Tay is not the only one with doubts here. Vaziri crosses her arms as she stares at her student.  
“And you are sure that a conversation is? Those enchanted souls in Balmora were not very cordial, if memory serves.”

“This is a separate entity, Vaz. It may not be beyond negotiation tactics”, she says and then adds another section through mumbling. “…I hope.”

This is an addition Tay overhears and she ardently shakes her head.  
“No. I refuse to let you endanger yourself, Jollain. I’m going in there with you.”

On most days and scenarios, Tay is a pretty soft and gentle being, despite her size and externally intimidating appearance. When it comes to Jollain’s safety, however, she can be exceedingly unyielding. It’s both sweet and irritating.  
“Well, tough shit, because this isn’t up to you, Tay. This is _my_ quest, right? Then the choices should be mine too.”

“If it involves a near suicidal risk, then I don’t think that’s a fair deal, Jollain.”

Shortly after she makes this statement, the entire team hears distant groaning and shrieking from behind. Maak scowls and prepares his spear in a battle-ready stance.  
“More are coming”, he speculates. “I presume they still wish to destroy us, since we invaded their domain.”

“Then we should move”, Tay suggests.

“No. I’m in charge of this mission and until that aspect changes, I make the decisions.” He steers his attention towards Jollain. “If you believe you can take care of the priest in your own way, I’m willing to give you a chance.”

“Maak!”, Tay almost shouts. “You can’t-“

 _“I can”_ , he states firmly. “But I’m not saying we abandon her. If anything goes wrong in there, Jollain, call for us. We will breach that door without delay. Do you understand?”

Jollain takes a somewhat shaky breath and slowly nods.  
“Yeah, I get it. Don’t worry, I’ve got no plans to sacrifice myself. Still got a lot to live for.”

Prior to departing, she and Tay stare at each other for several ambivalent moments, and while Tay is caught in a torrent of erratic emotions, plainly displayed in her crimson eyes, Jollain is attempting to muster all her bravery and confidence.  
“Be careful. Please”, Tay begs her.

Jollain shuts what little gap exists between them and squeezes her girlfriend’s hand.  
“I’ll try.”

With her friends leaping into danger behind her, Jollain steels her thoughts and heart, while she pushes onwards, through the next door. Thankfully, Vaziri’s assumption was correct and nothing explodes when Jollain opens it. Not yet, anyway.  
The next section she enters is definitely part of the same system, though larger in girth and much brighter. It is an area that Jollain can best describe as a shrine.

The whole room glows in a fierce scarlet shade, emanated from not just six mer-sized pillars with shelves and their accompanying candles, but a sturdy platform in the center.  
It’s a hexagonal and fairly thick disc, with an array of magical symbols, emblems, patterns and inscriptions, none of which Jollain has any clue how to read. On top of it stands a smoking urn or capsule of some sort, which radiates an even fiercer light. A few flaming braziers can also be spotted along the farthermost wall.

In front of all these sights stands only one person, just as Jollain had suspected. She almost identifies him as a dunmer, until he gradually spins around, and she can examine him in more detail.  
She observes the tattered robes, the infected hairless grey skin, the thin build and most of all, the eyeless head with a big trunk protruding from this region, giving her frightening recollections from her nightmares. It’s impossible to prevent herself from flinching to begin with, but she manages to remain resolute. She has to persevere.

The corrupted being maintains its position and when it speaks, the sound echoes and reverberates like several voices talking at once. Some use a normal conversational tone, others whisper or mumble; all of them make Jollain’s skin crawl.  
“The Sixth House greets you, Lord Nerevar. Ah, or Jollain, as you have chosen as your outer guise. I am known as Dagoth Gares, priest of Ilunibi and minister of the true House of Morrowind. My lord, Dagoth Ur, informed me of your arrival. It is my hope that you have come today to honor your friendship and not squander it as you once did.”

It’s both vexing and daunting, but she somehow knew that he was waiting, just like she had told her friends and allies. She doesn’t understand how or why, but she did. This entire scenario is beyond her ken. And why in Oblivion does he have to refer to her as ‘Nerevar’? It only pisses her off even further.  
“So, it’s true, then. Dagoth Ur is real?”

“This astounds you? It should not. He is most corporeal and undeniable. He is the Awakened Lord of House Dagoth, come to cast down the false gods, expel all foreigners and restore the ancient glory of Morrowind, which was lost so many eons ago.”

“…splendid. Always wanted to deal with another crazy would-be god…”, she mutters.

“You have sensed him, haven’t you? You were called, compelled to come.” Gares spreads his arms. “He has an offer for you. Dagoth Ur reaches his hand out in friendship and honor, a companionship you once shared. He would grant counsel and power, if you are willing to renew your affiliation, Lord Nerevar. The path to the Red Mountain is perilous and turbulent, but in its depths, you will find a staunch friend.”

Okay, while it’s unquestionable now that she did feel some sort of bizarre…compulsion to make it all this way, the words offered were not at all what she had come to expect. She figured there would be a fight or at least an ambush.  
“Wait, what? That’s…ridiculous. Ur betrayed Nerevar, didn’t he?”

The priest tilts his head, the trunk from his face swaying back and forth.  
“Have you been listening to the lies of the false gods, Lord Nerevar? Ur was always your friend.”

“Uh, right. That sounds like guar dung, but…I’ll leave it for now. You realize I’m an outlander too, don’t you?”

“It is regrettable that you chose an outlander as your reincarnated vessel, Lord, but Dagoth Ur sees you for who you truly are. In a way, he applauds your guile. This disguise was a clever ploy, to fool the false gods.”

Jollain scowls and shakes her head.  
“This isn’t-…the Sixth House is dead. It died thousands of years ago.”

“Incorrect. We were not dead, merely asleep. Now, it has reawakened and with Dagoth Ur at the wheel, we will craft a paradise in the midst of this blasted wasteland.”

More delusional nonsense. Perhaps she should’ve expected this facet too, though. Is it worth contradicting or should she play along?  
“How in Oblivion can House Dagoth call me their friend? You’ve attacked both me and my companions every step of the way. Not exactly what an ally would do.”

Gares bows his head respectfully.  
“I ask for your forgiveness, Lord, regarding the rude welcome. It was a necessity. Until you have declared yourself our friend, we must treat you as a foe.  
The Sleepers and Dreamers are newly blessed vessels, but the one you see before you, like my brothers and sisters, are the Children of His Flesh. We are the true manifestations of his power and our bodies swell with his glory. You can share of our bounty.”

Yeah, that’s the last thing she’d want to do. Dying sounds better than turning into a thrall, a husk of what she’s supposed to be.  
“And what does being a friend entail? You haven’t explained.”

“It should be self-evident – you must submit to the Lord, of course. You have to travel into the core of the Red Mountain and kneel before him.”

Just like she suspected. Ur doesn’t want a friend, he wants a servant. A slave.  
“Hmph. Typical.”

“Lord Ur has provided me with some words for you, so that you may perceive his emotions, his reality. Listen well.” Gares takes a sharp breath, before he continues in a deeper voice.  
“’Once we were friends and brothers, Lord Nerevar, in peace and in war. Yet beneath Red Mountain, you struck me down as I guarded the treasure you bound me by oath to defend. But, remembering our old friendship, I would forgive you, and raise you high in my service’.”

The priest barely even has time to resume his previous stance, as Jollain rejects it with a wave.  
“Not a chance. He isn’t asking for a friend, but a servant, a thrall.”

“Naturally. What else would a god ask for? But Lord Nerevar, you would, as a friend, be given the greatest of roles, the highest esteem among his chosen.”

Jollain clenches her hand and almost grits her teeth.  
“You know, I’m getting really fucking sick of your bullshit. Stop calling me Nerevar, dammit!”

“I can only speak to you as what you are in your heart.”

“You’re as full of shit as the rest of ‘em.”

Gares reaches out with his hand, in a gesture which he previously described Ur doing.  
“Genuflect or perish, Moon-and-star.”

She snorts derisively.  
“How about I go for a third option, huh? Fuck you.”

“You are as stubborn as you have always been.”

Jollain shoves a hand into her jacket and pulls out a dagger, which she tosses right at him. Gares is not slow enough to be impacted by such means and he easily deflects it with a swift barrier. Shortly after, he prepares a spell teeming with corruption and sends it towards her, but she is agile enough to dodge it quite handily.  
She rolls around on the ground, pulls out both of her blades and charges at him. He summons spells that emanate with energy in red and black colors, like a void in the shape of a mist, which he continues to launch at her. If there’s anything Maak has told her, though, it’s the value of reflexes and dexterity and she’s swiftly out of the way from each one, before they even hit the ground.

Once she gets within range, she spins and batters his position with the short swords, and though he manages to summon wards to hold off several attacks, he is not suitably prepared for her magical affinity. She conjures power into her body and stomps the ground, sending a shockwave of lightning which pushes him backwards. His body is clearly not meant for extended combat and she sees how he’s on the brink of falling.

Gares groans and exhales in pain.  
“You…truly have maintained your strength during your long absence, Lord, as befitting the Hortator.”

She grits her teeth in rage.  
“Can you stop fucking saying that?!”

“Why do you deny your status?”

Jollain leaps into him and no matter how adamantly Gares struggles, he is far from fast nor strong enough to hinder her victory. She’s a maelstrom that lashes into his broken veneer. He may cause the occasional injury, but she is driven by anger and a strange touch of indignance that she can’t really trace. It’s like she will not be ignored or suppressed. She doesn’t know where it comes from, but she exploits it nonetheless.

One of her spells go awry, which he tried to waylay, but this was all part of her plan, as it gives her a chance to tackle him. She evades another quick blast and then alters the trajectory of her swords. She stabs one blade into his chest and plunges the other into his abdomen, penetrating his cursed flesh and leaves the weapons inside of him.  
With what little energy lingers, Gares chokes and grunts in agony and stumbles to the ground, falling close to the central altar. His whole body is trembling and convulsing.

Weirdly, he doesn’t seem angry or disappointed, but almost elated or relieved. He keeps a smile on his face as he watches her.  
“Even as my Master wills, you shall come to him”, he utters in a raspy voice, “in his flesh, and of his flesh. You are one.”

With his death, he practically explodes, but not through fire and fury. Instead, he exudes a sort of grey gas that washes over her and obscures her senses. She grits her teeth and attempts to flee, but it’s far too late.  
Once she falls to her knees, Jollain detects how her body almost immediately grows weak and she coughs violently. The Blight has come to her. She is infected.


	21. Heart of eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Got another Dagoth Ur dream here, but this one is somewhat different._

Heavy, like a pile of a thousand rocks all stacked up right on her skull. That’s how the pressure digging into her head feels right now and Jollain is no longer sure if this is a new shade of life or death’s dismal presence looming over her, demanding that she abdicate. She could allege that fear is gradually overtaking her, but that’s not really the case. Instead, she stumbles through a mist of puzzlement and distortion. It’s impossible to determine what’s real and false.

As she allows her eyelids to open and reveal to her what she assumes to be the coming oblivion, she ends up being surprised, perhaps even a little disappointed. Instead, her gaze feasts upon a landscape and surroundings that she recognizes and yet has never witnessed. Or has she? In another life, another era. The ashen and cracked soil, caressed by the verdant outer layers and the distant glittering waters all claim their sections of her memory.

Legions extend before her station, a whole sea of different people. Warriors, mages, archers, rogues – each of them stands ready to serve her in all their glory, to fulfill the vow which they swore. While she can identify these traits, there are stranger aspects. Except for the unfamiliar armors and weapons, the hue of their skins does not match her recollection. Or does it? They sport a darker shade of pale gold, only somewhat dissimilar from that of altmer.

As she turns to view them, the people that she for some inexplicable reason marks as her own, a voice echoes inside her mind. It is an eerily familiar sound that has invaded her on multiple occasions in the past. She’s getting increasingly frustrated with how often he insists to be acknowledged. His presence is even more penetrative and invasive than it was previously.  
_“Lord Nerevar Indoril, Hay Resdaynia! Long forgotten, forged anew!”_

In comparison with other nights where he has intruded upon her innermost thoughts, her body is not particularly negatively affected this day. He is merely a rumble, an annoyance, not a maelstrom.  
The various elves in thick and sturdy attires are from a variety of sources and she can pinpoint their flags to some extent – Hlaalu, Redoran and Telvanni. A few more wave in the winds nearby, ones that are unknown to her, but the other section of her mind assists where she falters – Indoril, Dres, Dagoth. How could she know that?

Astonishingly, an entirely separate army, dressed completely different, awaits the same orders as the Houses. They are equally vehement mer, adorned in more organic and weather-worn garments, austere and solemn. Has to be Ashlanders. Ahemmusa, Zainab, Erabenimsun, Urshilaku and more – they are all here, all anticipating the surge in motion that is undoubtedly approaching.  
No matter who they are or what they represent, every mer bows before her, putting their hands to their chests in reverence and deference, preparing to ingest her words.

 _“Seething and stalwart, you rise to the challenge. The fumes of fire, the crackles of life, you are their blood, their furor. Hortator!”_ , the voice rings in her soul.

She parts her lips, but before a single sound is uttered, she hears slight explosions and grumbling behind her, louder than any person can perform and it draws her attention to an area not too far away. That’s right, the heat. It is here too, undeniably vigorous. The soaring heights of the Red Mountain rises nearby, with smoke and fire bursting into the sky, almost spurring on the soldiers who align their hearts for battle.

_“Three belied you, three betrayed you!”_

She’s uncertain of the underlying purpose, but it’s unmistakable that the voice indicates a particular set of figures in her proximity and she somehow know what to look for. Turning sideways, she spots a trio of individuals standing a few meters to her left, close to her own elevated state. More golden mer, though these are clothed in gear that allow them to emanate a unique aura, one that radiates with importance.

The first looks like a young and strong warrior, with extravagant hair, pierced ears and a heavy armor. He? She? They? Nevertheless, two blades rest at the belt and a spear’s pointed tip glimmers from the back.  
Next to this person is a tall and beautiful woman, with long flowing and vibrant red hair. She’s dressed in a lighter and more revealing outfit, but she still has swords attached to her clothes. As Jollain peers into her eyes, they gleam with love and desire.  
Finally, there is a somewhat shorter elf, standing a little behind the other two. He wears lengthy robes and a cowl which hides much of his face, practically looking shy. He keeps a bundle of scrolls and tools that are both peculiar and enigmatic. In the end, all three bow for her as well.

_“One you betrayed was three times true!”_

She is urged to switch sides and sees no reason to oppose this notion. Here, she spots another magnificent person, a fourth in their little posse. He sports a mixture of graceful robes and reinforced plates. He is certainly handsome, that much can’t be ignored. The gravity his aura exudes reeks of dignity and stoicism, but watching him still fills her with heartwarming emotions that would embrace him as a brother.

_“Lord Voryn Dagoth, Dagoth Ur, steadfast liegeman, faithful friend, bids you come and climb Red Mountain!”_

Before she can address a single one of them, everyone hears the horns of battle blow in the distance, gaining the attention of the entire united army. They gaze to the west, ardently searching for the vision they know will be there. Anticipation and dread intertwined.  
There, they locate it, another horde of creatures swarming towards them from remote shores and treacherously close quarters. They have come to take these lands from the mer.

People look to Jollain, waiting for her to issue the expected. She is their arbiter, their unifier, their savior. Their Hortator and Great Ashkhan. She must guide them to strength, honor, survival and victory. She does not aim to disappoint.  
She lets her hand descend to the hilt of a blade and when she unsheathes it, flames lick its brilliant metal. She raises it to the sky, augmenting her own voice.  
“For Resdayn!”

It is not her throat that emits those words, but the responding shouts are triumphant regardless.  


* * *

  
The dream fades into obscurity, into a haze that she cannot pierce and transfers her into an unknown location, with unknown attributes. Her heart is being permeated with loss and disorientation, with anxiety and despair. This is not the Hortator, the brave spirit that would challenge the very gods in their perceived resplendence, if it meant to protect her people. No, this is a cowering and apprehensive form.

She’s in a room, a rotten lair filled with darkness, a damp and cold air, fetid odors that bite her nostrils with resentful fervor and an ominous sound further into the depths. She knows very little of why she has been sent here, nor what it contains, but none of it matters. She wants to escape and that yearning trumps any other reaction. Sadly, there is no way to get out. She tries to access the only exit, with the sole source of all light, but she cannot reach.

The bars of a cage are erected in her path and no matter how much she struggles, pushes and labors, they will not budge. She desperately searches the ground for alternatives, ways that she might break or dig a route, but it is pointless. Why would the means of her liberation be within her jail? She is contained and restricted, and here she shall stay until her essence has decayed into nothing but a caustic and bitter will.

In her peripheral vision, she spots movements and as she whirls to peer through the gaps in the gate, she notes two figures outside. Their visages are shrouded in the light, letting her see no more than their contours. She squints, but it does little to enhance her image. They are no more than a blur.  
As she looks at them, however, she somehow feels as if she belongs with them and their place is with her. But then why are they out there, in the winds of freedom and she is locked inside?

She attempts to push her hands through the bars and calls out, bids them to help her, but they do nothing. They watch and stare, certainly not displaying any kind of interest in rescuing her. They offer what she can only perceive as uncaring eyes, ones that will not show remorse.  
Eventually, they tire of her pleading and turn around, starting to walk away, to a place where she cannot go, cannot view them anymore. She doesn’t want them to leave, to remove the last shred of hope, but her wishes are trivial.

“Stay! Please! Come back! I need you!”  
Cold and distant, they proceed and disappear into the golden rays of brightness, which are not for her. She does not deserve it. She slowly slides against the wall, to the ground and end up on her knees, with her hand grasping the stone. She sobs.  
“Don’t leave me…I beg you…”

She’s scared, frozen and misplaced. There is no one left in this world that cares about her, who would willingly show her any compassion. Such kindness was ripped out of this realm and torn apart, so she would forever know nothing but the shadows. She wraps arms around herself, providing what sole comfort she’s likely to get in this emotional wasteland, barren of sympathy and benevolence. Did the light ever grant her mercy?

Another voice speaks, but not one she had expected; the slithering serpent of deception, whose propositions are nothing but insidious tricks. No, this does not even encroach upon her mind. It’s in the room, softer and friendlier.  
_“Forsaken, forlorn and forgotten”_ , it says and then kneels behind her, sliding arms around her frame in a tender embrace. _“…but not alone. Never alone, rising crescent.”_

She gasps, sensing how she’s being filled with warmth and affection, like a mother hugging her child. She feels safe and loved once more, leaning into the touch. The entity tilts itself to her height, uttering words in close proximity, lips nigh touching her ear.

_“Steer your gaze to the road of shadows, moon-and-star. Twilight embrace you, unconditional.”_


	22. Blighted

When this adventure began, there were many alternatives lined up in their list of outcomes. Some were unquestionably better than others and a few could be marked down as nothing but dreams, but it was the ones at the bottom, the nightmare scenarios, that they had to avoid at all costs.  
And yet now, they sit here, with the worst possible result that they could’ve predicted. The events and reasons behind this conclusion are still unfathomable.

After Jollain had emerged from the depths of the Sixth House shrine’s interior, she had announced herself the victory against the guileful priest, though she didn’t seem particularly satisfied.  
She mentioned having killed Gares after the utterly ludicrous offer he had proposed, but some form of gas had erupted from his corpse and she felt…strange once she inhaled it. Her chest apparently became fairly heavy, her throat was growing exceedingly dry and she could detect a fever coming on. Thankfully, none of this was enough to prevent her from walking, which allowed the team to exit the caverns uncontested.

In the evening, Vaziri had performed an inspection by casting a quick anti-poison spell, just to make sure it wasn’t noxious vapor, but she could detect no such source. She had surmised it could have be a disease, of course, but they’d have to see a professional healer to cure such ailments, as the khajiit is not well-versed enough in the advanced levels of the restoration school, though she sorely wished that she were at that time.

Without faltering, Jollain had rapidly demanded that they pick up the pace to reach Balmora and no one had opposed her fierce request, but it had not been enough. The journey had been impeded with the revelation of what was really going on.  
First, Jollain’s skin had become disturbingly itchy, the coughing intensified, and she constantly griped about getting dust in her eyes or how dehydrated they had become. The unease deepened.

After no more than a few days, when they were a handful of hours from Balmora at most, the first unnatural growths had sprouted from her skin. They were small, but still very noticeable marks. Shortly following this development, her eyes became halfway discolored, transforming into an unnervingly grey hue. She thankfully didn’t report any diminishment in eyesight, though that proved to be only a small allayment.

They had promptly speculated that it was the Blight rearing its ugly and malignant head, but Vaziri had inferred differently. She identified the swellings and indications as symptoms of a far worse sickness – Corprus, the most dangerous strain of the Blight diseases that are dispersed from the Ashlands. Even if the majority of the group aren’t healers or somehow affiliated with such a profession, all three know what will transpire – Jollain’s body will contort, it will grow weak and slowly open her mind to be seized entirely, losing all remnants of the person that she is. There is no known cure in the entirety of Morrowind, or even Tamriel overall. The rest of the continent hasn’t exactly been spending resources on looking for a remedy to a highly localized illness.

Jollain had already alluded to the fact that her dreams have now exacerbated and redoubled their potency. In fact, they can now infect her at any time. While the others converse and interact, she sort of drifts in and out of lucidity, losing herself to the visions. During the last day or so, she either slumbers or mumbles in words and even full languages which none of the team can identify. It’s unintelligible and worrying.

As night has now arrived and they have allowed Jollain to rest, they watch over her. They don’t really have much of a choice, as their thoughts are suffused in uncertainty. Tay is, naturally, the most concerned and can hardly sleep at all, as she can’t stop fearing the worst for Jollain’s sake. Fortunately, she has not been left in solitude, for Maak-Veh, Vaziri and even little Amnet are still adrift in the same dilemma.

For the time being, they’ve ensured that the bosmer sleeps alone, but Tay is constantly on the verge of discarding all notions of caution, to lie down and embrace her girlfriend, even if she might contract the disease. She would risk death if it meant consoling her beloved. Luckily, Maak has convinced her to keep at least some distance, though it’s unclear how long that’ll last. Him and Vaziri have had to do the same with Amnet, who ceaselessly stares at his shorter mommy, occasionally emitting sad grunts.

Once the dunmer ends another lengthy session of excessive churning in misery, she buries her face in her hands and groans.  
“Dammit, I can’t take this anymore. If we sit around here doing nothing for too long, I’ll go mad first.”

The argonian’s eyes have been closed for several moments, as he sits in the dirt with his legs crossed, his arms folded and the spear resting on his shoulder. Since he can’t find peace in sleep, he attempts the next best thing. He has faced mixed results. Now, however, his yellow eyes open and glance skeptically at his taller companion.  
“I did tell you to slow down. Anticipating the worst will only speed up its approach.”

“That doesn’t help, Maak. Telling me to do something else is pointless.  
I just…I don’t want to leave Jollain be. We can’t dump her somewhere and wish her well. We are her only hope. Everything would be for naught in that case and…” She exhales and lets her hands slide down, turns them upwards and she peers into her palms for answers. They avail her nothing.  
“I love Jollain too much for that to occur.”

“And no one has suggested that we would or should. I would never simply abandon a fellow agent and friend to a cruel fate like this, Tayerise. I hope I’ve made that abundantly clear.”

She lets her eyes drift towards him and displays signs of guilt.  
“I know. Sorry.”

He shakes his head.  
“Don’t be. I realize how grueling this is for you too. Sadly…I’m out of options. Corprus is as far out of my element as one could possibly get.”

Tay would agree and also attribute the same concept to herself. She is equally clueless.  
In the meantime, Vaziri does her best to soothe the guar, gently stroking her paws over the scales on his back in regular patterns, hoping to keep him assuaged and away from Jollain. So far, it has succeeded.  
“Personally, I propose that we wrap her body in a few blankets before we reenter the city”, she says. “To hide her appearance. The citizens will not act kindly if they notice what she is becoming.”

On that subject, Maak nods his head in agreement.  
“Sad, but true. I’ve witnessed similar troublesome events in the past, how only minor evidence of Blight or Corprus have driven people against their neighbors, even family members, to banish or expel them before it develops to the most critical levels.”

The dunmer ardently shakes her head.  
“I will not allow that to happen. If anyone tries to hurt her, they’ll have to go through me.”

Maak carefully raises his hands in an alleviating fashion.  
“And we’re not going to expose her to such tragic ends. But Vaziri is right – we need to conceal her symptoms. The people of Balmora will not comprehend our intent, nor how dire it is. We have to proceed with caution.”

Tay opens her mouth to argue, but she swiftly swallows those protests.  
“You’re right, of course. Glad you’re making the decisions, because I’m not sure my mind is rational enough right now.”

“That’s why I’m here. This scenario is a little out of my league, but if you’ve faced one crisis, you can adjust. Just follow my lead.”

While it cannot be said that she is unperturbed, Vaziri’s eyes does soon glimmer with fascination as she studies the short and reclined elf.  
“Hmm. In a way, one could argue that this repercussion has guided her into the path of the prophecy once more, whether intentional or not. She is, after all, meant to remove or heal the Curse-of-Flesh.”

The matter of myth and divination had been a distant thought ever since they stumbled out of Ilunibi, for saving their friend had become a critical concern. This reminder isn’t much of an antidote.  
“Yeah, we know, but that isn’t a comforting thought”, Tay insists. “Right now, it looks more like Jollain is completely trapped in its debilitating grasp. If she’s going to heal this curse, it won’t be out of her own volition.”

“Let’s also not forget that Nibani called them ‘trials’”, Maak recalls. “A test can, sadly, be failed. If Jollain doesn’t locate the cure in time…”

Frustratedly and furiously, Tay pushes her gear away and rises to her feet.  
“No! I won’t allow this fucked up world to take her! Daedra, Tribunal and soothsaying be damned – she’s too good to be lost to this inane quest.” The only aspect that at least partially settles her boiling emotions is the sight of Jollain being caught in an uneasy rest. Tay would sacrifice her own soul to grant Jollain a moment of solace.  
“There has to be a way. A trial wouldn't exist without a method to crack it."

Maak hunches a bit, running his hand over the spikes on his head in a contemplative gesture.  
“Well, there are obviously options, but the problem is hunting down the solution. We could see a healer, but there doesn’t seem to be a single person, whether magical or alchemical, that knows how to treat it.”

“What about the ashlanders? Could be a tribe with more insight. The Ahemmusa has a wide assortment of knowledge regarding local medicines. They use less conventional means than the Houses.”

The argonian furrows his brow and rubs one of the spikes from his jaw in thought.  
“Not to insult your people, but I’m highly skeptical that they have any effective countermeasures. The ashlanders are tied to this land more than anyone, but I'm not aware of any that have conquered Corprus."

“In spite of my reluctance, I am on ser Maak-Veh’s side”, Vaziri admits. “No traditional answers will resolve this predicament. That will only lead to false hope and failure.”

Tay sighs heavily and spreads her arms in a helpless gesture.  
“Maybe, but we can’t simply surrender. Jollain is part of our team, Vaziri, our friend and family. Abandoning her is a heartless and unreasonable path.”

“Naturally and I wasn’t implying that we should give in. Instead, I believe we should seek another route, though one that may be…questionable. This disease is evidently more than just a typical and physical infection. From what I have parsed of Jollain’s words, along with rumors across Vvardenfell, it would appear that this whole condition is directly connected to the Sixth House and Dagoth Ur. It is artificial, crafted by a devious mind and therefore likely magical in nature. It stands to reason that one of great magical aptitude could disperse it.”

Maak and Tay glance at one another with incredulous eyes.  
“Okay…”, says Tay. “What are you getting at here? Are you trying to categorize it or is there a plan involved?”

After taking a deep breath, Vaziri entwines her fingers and lays both hands on Amnet’s back.  
“I want you to understand this brings me no comfort to recommend, but…there might be one potential treatment.”

Tay widens her eyes and her heart suddenly reignites with the sliver of an ember, as if she dares to hope.  
“Really? What is it?”

“I have heard of an exceedingly old Telvanni mage by the name of Divayth Fyr. He lives in solitude on a small island, ignored by most of his House and the people he allegedly rules. I heard a rumor, months ago, that he has been gathering and experimenting on those who are infected by Corprus. He has made it his primary mission to expunge it.  
He is ostensibly attempting to develop a type of medication and has sent out requests for as many volunteers or afflicted as possible.”

She had dared to invite optimism, but now it’s like a hand clutches Tay’s heart. A Telvanni? They rarely do anything unless they can benefit from the outcome.  
“I see. And uh, has he had any success?”

A short delay follows, before Vaziri exhales from her nose.  
“He has not.”

“N’chow. That’s…disappointing.”

“Undoubtedly, but he may also be our only alternative. What other route would we walk? The same one that so many others have already traversed and failed? In that case, we may be forced to watch Jollain fall down a steep and inevitable decline. At least here, there is a slight chance, a possibility that Fyr has finally discovered the way to heal, where no one else can. He is old; some say older than the nation of Morrowind.”

Tay scoffs. Damn Telvanni and their arrogance. They do everything to outlive the world, to find their own selfish version of glory.  
“I don’t like this one bit. Telvanni mages usually go too far in these types of enterprises.”

“Oh, you do not have to explain this to me. I know better than anyone.” Her statement hushes the other two. Her story of suffering is difficult to disregard. “I am not a fan of those depraved and haughty scoundrels, but it is all I have.”

Maak slowly caresses the scales around his nose.  
“Hmm. Do you know where we can find this ancient mage?”

She dips her head in confirmation.  
“He has a tower called Tel Fyr, on an isle southwest of Sadrith Mora.”

“Right. Well, unless you have any objections, Tayerise, I suggest we enter the Mages Guild inside Balmora, grab a portal to the east and then sail to the tower. We seem to have few other choices.”

The dunmer looks longingly at her beloved one more time, observing how Jollain’s head twists back and forth and she moans in faint agony. Tay can’t leave her like this.  
“Fine. Let’s track down this Telvanni and see if he is just for show or not. If he tricks us, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”


	23. Ancient antidote

The experience of visiting the allegedly ‘magnificent’ wizard known as Divayth Fyr has, thus far, been both peculiar and confusing in equal measure.

Prior to leaving for the isles along the eastern coast, the group took a detour to visit Caius for a terse meeting and he was most discouraged to witness the results of the mission he had sent them on. He realized he was partially to blame. As he had no intentions of disputing Vaziri’s recommendation, since he didn’t have a better remedy, he offered some assistance. To help with making the Telvanni mage more affable, he presented the team with a small dwemer contraption which should pique his interest.

The journey to Sadrith Mora was mostly uneventful, with the exception of some puzzled stares offered to Jollain by the mages beholding her strange getup. Unfortunately, upon arrival, they were informed that no official routes to Tel Fyr exist. The only means of getting there is hiring a private boat. Or swimming, perhaps. Seeing no other options, the group scoured the harbor until they found a willing fisherman who could sail his boat to the correct island.

It’s a misty afternoon as they navigate towards their destination and once the tower emerges from the fog, it is an unusual sight. It’s not a singular growth, like most other Telvanni buildings, for its roots dig into a large hill that it has been erected on top of. Additionally, and possibly more perplexing, is the lack of a town. Nothing whatsoever, except the mushroom tower, is distinguishable on this island. Tayerise knew about Telvanni standards, though rarely the specifics, but she thought there always had to be an attached settlement. Vaziri was quick to inform her that Fyr is said to be an irregularity.

As they are not impeded in any way, the group disembarks without issue, though they do have to pay another fee to convince the fisherman to stick around. The entrance into the facility that they approach is neat, although thoroughly abandoned. There are no guards or fence in any way that would bar their entry. Seeing no reason to question this vision, they press on and search for any signs of residents.  
The corridors here are built rather ornately, with various symbols and decorations, but the team is much more distracted by the organic and vivid appearance of the mushroom’s internal roots. Jollain especially hasn’t gotten used to how creeped out it makes her feel. Like walking into the veins of a living creature.

Curiously enough, they eventually discover that the place isn’t completely deserted. In the room past the entrance area, a lobby within the intricate and mildly puzzling pathways of Tel Fyr, stands a dunmer. They witness a fairly sweet-looking and beautiful grey-skinned woman situated by a multitude of tables, dressed in a set of sturdy and skillfully crafted bonemold armor, with an assortment of books and boxes all around her.

She blinks upon spotting the five individuals, corrects her long white hair and studies them with interest.  
“Hello”, she greets them, being quite softly spoken. “Who are you?”  
They have, technically, just entered someone’s home without permission, but she doesn’t look extraordinarily upset.  
“Are you guests or patients? Or are you perhaps thieves here to plunder the mighty Divayth’s vast vault of artifacts?”

She almost sounds a little excited at the latter suggestion, which bewilders the group even further.  
“Uh…no”, Jollain states after a few seconds. “And who in Oblivion are you?”

“I am Beyte Fyr, daughter of Divayth. One of them. Sort of.”

Tay scratches her cheek in thought.  
“Oh, okay. We…weren’t informed he had children.”

“Do many come to plunder your vaults?”, asks Vaziri.

Beyte shrugs casually.  
“Every now and then, yes. The occasional stupid adventurer decides to delve into our halls, figuring that a Telvanni mage must have a lot of valuable goods. He does, of course, but sadly, he keeps all of them among the diseased below, so the poor fools stumble to their own demise. Not our fault that people get greedy.”

The mystery of this place keeps expanding, but they don’t have time to investigate in any detailed fashion. They need answers.  
“Tell us, is this the location where individuals infected with Corprus are sent?”

“It is! All of them are transferred into the Corprusarium. It’s a highly unpleasant set of chambers, but each are fed and cared for fervently.”

Finding it a satisfying response, Jollain suddenly removes the blankets that cover her head and reveals the growths that have begun to spread across her face and neck.  
“Then I’d like to see guy in charge.”

Beyte instantly shifts her eyes towards Jollain and scrutinizes her image. Instead of fear or disgust, she taps her chin in a contemplative manner.  
“Ah, another future patient, I see. Yes, the symptoms are fairly simple to discern and they’re expanding rapidly, aren’t they? My condolences, sera.  
You will want to see master Fyr, then. He’s very likely up in his study. You may proceed there without delay. I shall note your audience in the logbook.”

She turns to a tome nearby, which she uses a pen and some ink to scribble in. This leaves the group in a bemusing situation, for she now believes they’re done, while this is far from the truth.  
“Ahem, sera Beyte?”, says Maak. “Where is this…study?”

Beyte blinks and looks at them with nonplussed eyes.  
“What? Oh, of course. This is your first visit, isn’t it? You have to head up the ramp behind me, and into the next door. The tube is past it.”

“…tube?”

“Yes. Like in most Telvanni realms, master Fyr had a ceiling pipe installed that leads to his office and laboratories. It’s to reduce interruptions and distractions, you see. One cannot see him without a levitation spell or potion.” She bows her head. “I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Jollain closes her eyes and rubs her nose.  
“Ugh, Telvanni. Great, just fucking great…”

Vaziri furrows her brow and her healthy ear twitches briefly.  
“I can provide such spellcraft, though I’ve never employed it on other people. It might be preferable, and safer, to utilize potions. Sera Beyte, do you keep any here in the tower?”

The daughter of Fyr strokes her chin thoughtfully once more.  
“You know, I’m not entirely certain. I would suggest you go to the backrooms of the bottom floor and speak to Delte, my sister. She organizes things here.”

“You…don’t mind that we just wander around in here?”, Tay asks cautiously.

“Of course not. Why would I? Everything valuable is either with the sick or on the upper levels. Explore if you wish, though these hallways are likely quite dull for you. Enjoy.”

And with that, she promptly returns to her work, losing interest in them. Vaziri whispers about Telvanni aloofness, a trait that this lady might’ve inherited from Divayth.  
They follow her instructions and run into a woman who is unquestionably related to Beyte, based on her looks, but isn’t quite the same. Her hairstyle mirrors the receptionist's, but in shades of red or chestnut and her facial features are a little more narrow and plain. She is also far busier than Beyte is, having a mountain of tomes and scrolls to deal with. She’s deep into a number of them, which she writes down a whole variety of information inside of. Behind her are a multitude of shelves and crates, like an archive.

Maak clears his throat, to hopefully gain her attention. She’s at least observant, as she looks directly at the group, but is just as unfazed by their appearance.  
“Yes?”

“Are you Delte Fyr?”, he asks.

“Correct. Did Beyte send you here?”

“She did. We are looking for something. She told us you might be able to provide levitation potions.”

The archivist nods slowly and turns towards a second pile of books.  
“Right, yes. I do keep a few spares down here, for emergencies.” She opens the appropriate tome and lets a finger slide down on the page. “Let’s see. Levitation, levitation…ah, box 43-201.” She rises from her chair and disappears among the shelves. In the distance, they hear the clinking sound of glass clashing, but in a delicate fashion. Half a minute later, she returns.  
“What do you offer as compensation?”

“Oh, we have to pay?”, asks Tay.

“Well, yes, obviously. Potion-brewing takes resources and manpower that are not free. If you want these, you will have to provide a suitable exchange. Gold works, or if you have something else of value, particularly of scientific or academic interest.”

The group glances among themselves, realizing that they don’t actually have a lot of coins to spare right now. Seeing no other way to deal with this situation, Tay withdraws the dwemer device from one of Amnet’s bags and shows it to Delte.  
“Will this be enough?”

The archivist takes the intriguingly intricate box into her hand and spins it around.  
“Hmm. Dwemer-make, yes? Archaeology is not my expertise, but I’m certain the master would like this little trinket. It will do.”  
She lifts two flasks, large as ale mugs, and gives them to Tay.  
“These will be enough. Between the four of you, drink one half bottle each. Sadly, I will have to recommend you leave your beast here on the bottom floor. Alfe tells us that guar stomachs react quite dubiously to these sorts of draughts.”

Tay displays signs of disappointment, but she surrenders to the wisdom of those with more knowhow. She kneels next to Amnet and gently caresses his scales.  
“I’m sorry, boy. You’ll have to remain here, while we go meet the wizard. I’ll let you stay with the nice lady at the entrance, alright? Maybe you can have a snack from her.”

Amnet doesn’t fully understand what she says, but he somehow acknowledges that they shall be separated for a short while, which saddens him. He nudges his head against his dunmer companion, his way of expressing a temporary goodbye.  
After drinking the potions in the right area, the team ascends via the long tube built straight into the roof of the next room. It’s utterly bizarre to the group why anyone would permit an element this hazardous in their own home, but Telvanni are often beyond normal rationale.

Immediately upon entering the next area, they bump into another woman who practically awaits them. She wears the same bonemold gear as the previous two, though her hair is brown, her appearance is marginally rougher, and her disposition can best be described as sly.  
“Ah, and what’s this?”, she asks in a mischievous tone. “Raiders come into Divayth’s lair again, hmm? Smarter than the last ones too. Or are you pirates? No matter. Let me just inform you that invading the tower of a 4000-year old Telvanni wizard is not the brightest idea. I would suggest turning around and escaping while you still can. But who am I to stop you if you truly desire the transformation into piles of dust? Who knows - Divayth may utilize your remains as future alchemical ingredients.”

It’s becoming pretty clear to the group that these people are either exceedingly bored or just spend so limited time around other citizens of Vvardenfell, that they don’t know how to properly interact.  
“What the fuck are you babbling about?”, Jollain blurts. “We’re not here to steal shit. I’m sick and I hear your dad, master or…whatever, can help me.”

With their intent revealed, this woman’s caustic demeanor disperses, and she becomes more serene and…a little dissatisfied, perhaps?  
“Oh, I see. Hmm, very well. I guess your face does look rather dismal, yes.”

Jollain squints.  
“…you’re not so pretty yourself, bitch.”

Vaziri laughs, while Maak approaches and pats his friend’s shoulder.  
“I believe she was commenting on your condition, not your beauty.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, I knew that.”

The argonian shakes his head and soon redirects his eyes towards what they can presume is the third Fyr sister.  
“…Alfe Fyr?”

This woman folds her arms and looks much less polite than the other two.  
“The others gossiped about me, did they? Hmph. Yes, I’m Alfe. If you wish me to take you to our oh-so-dear ‘father’, follow me.”

With this being the only avenue they’re presented with, they do as they’re told. Up here, the halls are filled with far more objects and instruments. They can see several corridors, rooms brimming with magical equipment and resources, extended fungal growths, crystals, ancient tomes and paraphernalia that is beneficial for a mage of such renown.  
Divayth Fyr happens to be the first different individual they’ve met in here and not just because he’s a man. He’s much older than the rest – though not enough to divulge his alleged age – wrinkled and highly balding, with white hair tied into a receded ponytail and an accompanying beard in the same shade. His crimson eyes are still moderately sharp, and he wears a remarkable black armor, dark as ebony, but one that glitters with red light.

“Hmm. Reminds me of daedric craftsmanship”, Vaziri whispers to them.

Upon entry, they notice how the old man is operating an array of glass pipes, bulbs, cylinders and flasks, which boil and churn with odd, unidentifiable liquids in a mishmash of colors. He veers towards the group and stares skeptically, though not out of fear. It’s as if he regards them as a nuisance.  
“What do you want?”, he inquires abruptly.

“Are you…Divayth Fyr?”, asks Tay.

“Well, who else would I be? Have you noted any other master wizards in this domain?” He shakes his head and then mutters. “Honestly, simpletons these days. It gets exasperating to deal with the likes of you. This is why I so vehemently rejected the foolish notion of a settlement. Always intruding and encroaching, with the most banal quest-“

Jollain is tired and confused, so she decides to interrupt his muttering.  
“Look, I don’t have time for your grumbling, okay? My name is Jollain and I’ve been infected with Corprus…we think. My friend here told me you might have a cure.”

Whether he respects such a forthright or stringent attitude or not, Divayth’s conduct alters from annoyance to curiosity.  
“Another specimen of the divine disease? Marvelous. I shall have to ask Alfe to transport you to the Corprusarium later. Oh, please, don’t be squeamish now. The title is most suitable, you’ll see.”

No one really complains about that aspect, as they’ve heard it before. However, Vaziri arches her brow still, for another concern.  
“Did you call it ‘divine’?”

The master wizard slips his arms behind his back in a casual way.  
“Very much so, and I have referred to it as such for some evident reasons. The magical principles of Corprus are elusive and spectacular, far more subtle, powerful and devious than any conventional sorcery or incantation.  
I have become increasingly convinced that it is some manner of curse or godly blessing. Or potentially both, in a merged macabre construction. A most morbid and peculiar endeavor that I would only attribute to the divine. They bore easily.”

Jollain rolls her eyes, a region of her that has become progressively more infected. Sometimes, they blur, making it difficult for her to see properly and has to be guided.  
“Fantastic. Gods fucking with mortals…again.”

“Yes, I realize that the victims undoubtedly cannot appreciate the complexities of the illness, as it saps the mind and shatters the body. But to a wizard, it is a delicious and profound enigma, a riddle worthy of a lifetime of study.  
Tell me, sera Jollain, are you aware that Corprus makes you immune to all diseases?”

She stares at him with incredulous and baffled eyes, both unamused and perplexed why he’d ask her this in her current state.  
“You don’t say.”

“Well, of course Corprus itself is categorized as a sickness, so that may not be a comfort, but it is nonetheless a fact.” He snorts in an entertained fashion. “You know, sometimes I ponder a charming element of Vvardenfell - the prophecy of the Nerevarine. Have you heard of it?” They don’t answer, and he doesn’t wait for one. “The ashlanders claim that Lord Indoril Nerevar will rise once again through the prophesized hero of the Nerevarine and will be immune to such ailments. I have always mused ‘maybe I have the Nerevarine down in my cellar and I’m oblivious to the identity’. Hah! The Nerevarine as a fat, disgusting Corprus abomination, delusional and aggressive as a marsh rat. An ironic notion, isn’t it?”

Regrettably, no one shares his humor, as most merely wait for him to be done chatting. For now, they choose to not mention the possibility of Jollain fulfilling the trials of the prophecy. Pretty dumb to get their hopes up in this precarious dilemma. They also know how exhausted the bosmer is of all this, so putting her on the spot is ill-advised.  
“What is this…Corprusarium?”, Maak wonders. “We’d like to know where you’d intend to send our friend.”

“A lair built inside the hill below my tower. I collect the victims of the divine disease and store them in the caves. Completely voluntarily, of course. I see no reason to abduct anyone. Most of these souls live sordid lives already and don’t need my interference. They can come and go as they please. A substantial majority never leaves, as they have lost the capability.  
Their existences are wretched, with constant agony, ferocious appetite and passions. They’re both terrifying and unmistakably captivating to research. Not only are they fully immune to disease, but I’ve been able to determine another facet – they live forever. A ‘perk’ of the malady, so to speak, barring accidents or battle.”

Vaziri folds her arms as she scrutinizes him.  
“I do not mean to impose, ser Fyr, but I doubt you do this out of benevolence, yes? No Telvanni would.”

Her accusation has him both intrigued and entertained.  
“You know our House that well, do you? Well, your statement is not misguided, but I can reassure you I do not have any nefarious purposes. I simply find the infected to be the most noteworthy segment of Tamriel in this era. An ancient mage needs a hobby, and this is mine.”

In the meantime, Tay glances around the room, seeing that Alfe has already departed. Bored, perhaps.  
“Uh, can we ask about your…daughters? We didn’t know you had any.”

It appears each of their topics has him somewhat amused, even this one.  
“But I do. What do you think? Most exquisite for people born in jars, don’t you agree? Charming and talented, diligent and compassionate.”

“…jars?”, Jollain asks uncertainly.

“Yes, you didn’t mishear me. I refer to them as ‘daughters’, though the term is not precise, due to a lack of linguistical alternatives. You see, they’re a small side project, an asset from my research into Corprus. They’re grown from my own flesh, each with distinct personalities – Alfe, Beyte, Delte and Uupse. Beyte is the sweet one, deals with couriers and guests. Delte is my efficient organizer. Alfe is the smartest and most capable, who crafts potions and minor devices, though she often gets on my nerves. Conflict is the spice of life, I suppose. Lastly, Uupse has the biggest heart and cares for the inmates below.  
Without them, this tower wouldn’t be running as efficiently. They’re thankfully less annoying company than the rabble.”

The whole group looks immensely uncomfortable now that they know the truth, and Vaziri mutters.  
“Azurah's grace. Damn Telvanni arrogance…”

Divayth simply ignores them and addresses Jollain.  
“You asked for a cure? I do have a potion for you that could do the trick. In theory, it should cure Corprus' symptoms.”

Jollain had looked mildly hopeful for a moment, but it swiftly evaporates.  
“…in theory?”

“Indeed, a detail I’m obligated to disclose. I’ve attempted to perfect it for ages, but it never works. It has killed virtually every single one of my previous test subjects and presumably, it will kill you too. Maybe. Who knows?”

Tay looks immensely alarmed by this revelation.  
“What? That’s no cure.”

Vaziri strokes one paw over her whiskers.  
“Hmm…there are no other alternatives?”

“No, this is it", Divayth confirms. "That’s all I’ve been able to uncover. You could wait a few decades, if you prefer. It’s conceivable that my research has ripened by then.”

Jollain buries her face in her hands.  
“Ugh. I don’t have decades, before I lose myself to this blasted plague.”

Then again, if she drinks it in its current state, she could just die anyhow, and she’ll never have another chance. She’s in peril either way. Divayth seems to recognize her predicament.  
“Why don’t we make a deal, sera? Go down to the Corprusarium below and wander the halls. I want you to understand just how far you will transform if you do nothing at all. Others have been hesitant, and this is where they ended their journey.”

The bosmer is reluctant to face such ideas, but he raises a good point. Maybe she does needs to learn to appreciate the other path first.  
“I…guess I could do that.”

“While you’re there, I would be grateful if you go and speak to Yagrum Bagarn, my oldest victim. He’s in the bowels of the Corprusarium and holds a pair of boots I require. Don’t worry, you need not fear him. He’s a handy and amiable little man, who occasionally tinkers with various contraptions for me.”

Jollain sighs and shrugs.  
“I’m not a damn errand girl…but fine.”

Tay wants to plant a hand on her shoulder, but holds back for now. They recommended keeping physical contact to a minimum.  
“Do you want company?”, she asks instead.

“No, you guys should stay here. I don’t wanna risk anyone else. I’ll be back soon. Hopefully.”

With a heavy heart and intrusive whispers penetrating her skull, she descends into the darkness below in solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I know the Fyr girls call themselves his 'wives' but I don't like all the creepy stuff with Divayth, especially since they're also referred to as 'daughters', so uh...yeah. Sticking with daughters only here._


	24. The last to toil

Submerging into the depths of Divayth Fyr’s underground lair is a singular, but not necessarily harrowing experience for Jollain. As she’s no fan of caves, she expected the worst, but this domain surprises her. Perhaps a lesson that she shouldn’t be so quick to judge, even though this is blatantly no luxury resort.

Just like the old man had promised, vast caverns sprawl out before her, with only a few torches to light up the darkness. It is a little dank and musty, though not necessarily unclean. Someone must be cleansing these halls regularly.  
Before she stepped through the gate, Divayth’s cleverest daughter, Alfe, had warned her that the patients might attack, based on her mostly untainted essence. It’s not their fault, Divayth had insisted, but a repercussion of their illness. It makes them hallucinate and view people in a different light, but he asked her to be lenient. Fortunately, Jollain knew exactly what he spoke of; she has already begun to parse the same unruly reality.

The poor diseased sods down here are drowning in far worse nightmares than she is, however, a fact that their bodies divulge. Their skins are bloated with pulsating pores, sickly growths and parasitic illnesses. Some have even gone so far that appendages are beginning to fall off, while others have grown claws or become nothing but walking, unrecognizable maladies, that wallow and languish in unending misery.

Curiously, they look nothing like the ash zombies and ghouls that Jollain’s team spotted on their journey to the Urshilaku and there are far more infected races than just dunmer. Altmer, bretons, nords, argonians, khajiit – it appears that no one can escape the terror of Corprus’ contaminating grip.  
In contrast with the ash creatures, these people are also far less mobile and not as belligerent, despite the warnings issued by their wizard hosts. Were Divayth and Alfe mistaken or is there another facet at play here?

In fact, almost everyone that Jollain runs into either outright ignores her existence or practically welcomes her. They step aside, dip their heads in greeting or wave, like any other person.  
Not only is she met with friendliness, but she feels a strange sense of…belonging, affinity or kinship. She’s not drawn to them, per se, but her mind is soothed in their company. They’re connected in some inexplicable way, some weird version of a collective mind, but nothing so evolved that they can hear each other’s thoughts. No, they merely detect the presence of one another and therefore eschew fear and rage. The only time Jollain has felt a similar familiarity was in the shadows of the Imperial City, but even that experience never grew this potent.

Everything is not columbine flowers and sunshine, though. The inmates here are undoubtedly suffering, both mentally and physically. It is evident not just in their appearances, but their groaning and wailing. She can hear agonized voices in certain corners, with some bemoaning the incessant aching bodies they have to inhabit, wondering why the gods would curse them so. A few do occasionally express gratitude towards Divayth, even if he’s not here, for being the only one to grant them a home at all, outside the wilderness. That said, many still wish they could view the sunlight, without having to fear the fallout.

Down here, despite the conditions of the infected, a few decorative items have been placed, such as paintings, furniture, small pools of water and mats. There are no animals or other living creatures in the outer layers, but Jollain finds it very intriguing that anyone would furnish this near dungeon at all. Almost like someone here tries to create a mildly homey feeling, or as close to one as can possibly be found in subterranean tunnels.

Once Jollain finally steps into the bowels, she begins to comprehend the source of this diligent performance. In a small side room, she spots the first non-diseased denizen that she has faced down here. It’s a courteous and a bit larger dunmer, both in size and height. The same gear as the other Fyr daughters adorn her body, but she has black hair in a high ponytail and a gentler disposition. When she speaks with her fairly deep voice, she expresses compassion, though not pity.

“Oh, hello there. I wasn’t aware we would receive a new patient. You have my sympathy for what you must surely endure. Is there anything I can assist you with, sera?”

Jollain is a bit disoriented at first and unconsciously scratches some of the growths on her neck.  
“Uh, I dunno. Do you work down here?”

The woman offers a friendly smile.  
“Yes, of course. Helping all of you is our foremost mission and I take pride in assisting our father with his purpose and research.”

“Oh, right. You’re one of ‘em Fyr girls, aren’t you?”

The dunmer bows her head politely.  
“That is correct. I am Uupse Fyr and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Yeah, you too. I’m Jollain. Gotta say, though, I haven’t seen any of your sisters down here.”

“Ah, yes, I tend to be the only one to traverse the tunnels on a regular basis. The Corprusarium is just one of our father’s many projects, and though it has steadily become the primary one, my sisters are often delegated to other tasks. There is much to do for one of such esteem, you see.”

Jollain snorts and shakes her head.  
“Yeah, I bet there is. Heard lots about what Telvanni do. Be honest, though, is his empathy legit? Because I get the feeling it might just be for show.”

Uupse’s amicable exterior falters somewhat, to grow a little more somber.  
“Well, your instincts are not…entirely incorrect. His passion is not fueled purely by a desire to eradicate Corprus, no. However, while some doubt our father, he is partially doing this out of compassion. He does wish to find a cure…but, the amount of research material he attains in the process does of course bestow him with great satisfaction.”

Naturally, she shouldn’t have expected anything else.  
“Figured as much. People in power rarely do this shit without gaining something.”

“Please do not judge him too harshly. Our father is not quite like other Telvanni. He is, first and foremost, a scholar and the research here is of utmost importance. He has attempted to reverse the affliction for a long time. A _very_ long time. No one expends so much effort if they do not care, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jollain considers it for a second and Uupse does have a small point, but it isn’t completely accurate. In fact, if a person can gain a prize or momentous advantage in the subsequent success, she’s pretty sure a lot of folks would devote many years to its conquest.  
“Eh, I guess.”

Uupse turns a mildly sorrow-filled gaze towards the tunnel that continues behind Jollain.  
“The outside world cares little for those who suffer from Corprus and despite our father’s admittedly aloof exterior, he truly seeks to aid them. They are better off here.”

Jollain soon tires of hearing about his alleged benevolence, but she’s not done asking for other details of the old man.  
“By the way, your sis said something weird earlier. Is it true that your dad is like…super old? She claimed 4000, but…”

Uupse shifts towards her and soon displays another smile.  
“Very much so. Our father is ancient, old enough to remember a time before the Tribunal. It is why he shows miniscule interest in worship and the ‘groveling masses’, as he calls the citizens. In fact, political power in general is not tempting to him. House Telvanni continuously press him to contribute, but all our father desires is to be left alone and conduct his experiments in peace.  
Not counting liches and divine sorcerers such as Vivec, or some spellcasters far inside the Summerset Isles, he is one of Tamriel’s most proficient mages too. He may also not have much competition in the department of generous wizards, but he surpasses them nonetheless.”

“And yet he doesn’t actually have like, a town.”

“No, our father sees such aspects as superfluous and pretentious. Many Telvanni simply wish to emulate the nature of the divine, by standing above others. He has no such delusions. The people can rule themselves.”

While she had previously dismissed him, Jollain now rubs her chin and acknowledges this angle. She doesn’t really enjoy flashy authority, so maybe Divayth has the right idea.  
“Huh. Fair enough.  
Oh yeah, I saw some interesting furniture and stuff out in the corridors. Is that your doing?”

Uupse beams at the recognition of her work.  
“Yes, it is! Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s…nice. For a cave, I mean.”

“I thought it might be wise to plant some gear, furniture and other familiar objects. I do realize they may not use such items and it doesn’t directly alleviate their suffering, but I believe it brings them a sense of normality, which they don’t otherwise receive.”

Jollain can’t help but smile a little at her enthusiasm.  
“Yeah, think you’re right. This is a lair where a lot of like, totally bonkers stuff happens, but I’m glad the people aren’t forgotten. Because, you know, I have uh…” She takes a deep breath and shrugs. “I dunno, a connection to them, I guess. I can sense their appreciation.”

Uupse inclines her head.  
“Yes, your symptoms are growing quite visible. Our father has theorized that the configuration of Corprus crafts a link between its victims and the creator of the disease. If our patients did not attack you, then they have likely accepted you as one of their own already.”

“Seems like it, but I’d prefer to not become a permanent resident here. No offense.  
Speaking of which, I’m looking for a guy – Yagrum Bagarn. Know where he is?”

“Oh, you wish to speak to ser Bagarn? Father must’ve sent you then. Please, come with me. He has his own little corner.”

Uupse begins to walk in a pace that takes Jollain’s height and condition into account. She’s a constantly accommodating figure, it seems. The bosmer can see why the inmates like this lady.  
“You know ‘im? What’s he like?”

“Ah, he’s a very passive and amicable man, though certainly somewhat eccentric.”

Jollain arches her brow.  
“More than your dad?”

The dunmer momentarily hesitates.  
“Well…they’re evenly matched, I suppose.”

“Heh. Good to know.”

This final stretch of the journey does not go on for very long and once they enter the correct quarters, Jollain notes that it’s equipped further than previous corridors. A wooden floor and table can be spotted in this section, with an assortment of technological gear and odd contraptions.  
However, what she stumbles into at the core is probably the most extraordinary and baffling sight she’s ever encountered, and the entire view has her initially stumped.

Yagum Bagarn is unmistakably an elf, evidenced by his pointed ears, but definitely not a dunmer. Or at least that’s what she presumes, based on his pale pink skin. He’s fat, though likely wasn’t abnormally so, prior to being infected. No, the humongous size of his body derives from the bloated flesh and much of his skin is filled with tumors, throbbing sores, growths and scars. A long thick and grey beard hangs down from his cheeks, surroundings his mouth and his appearance is largely naked. Below, she cannot spot two organic legs, but a very strange metallic device. Eight mechanical legs extend from under him, like a spider’s, possibly created from brass, which whirr and squeak. In a way, the design reminds Jollain a bit of the device that Tayerise had handed to Delte earlier.

As the women enter, they see how this man holds some form of old book in his hands, which he reads from with a pair of modified spectacles sitting on his nose. Occasionally, he fondles his beard, corrects the glasses or mumbles to himself.  
“Ser Bagarn?”, Uupse utters gently.

Despite her tender approach, the old man still flinches and gasps.  
“What? What?!” He then veers to view the women in the opening to his lair. “Goodness me! Uupse, you nigh gave me a heart attack, lass.”

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be too inappropriate, due to the fact that Uupse merely chuckles.  
“My apologies. I just wished to inform you that you have a guest.”

Suddenly, his demeanor shifts a tad.  
“Ooh, is that so? Most auspicious!” The mechanical spider legs slowly and deliberately begin to move, so that he can be turned towards them. “It is a rare day that I have visitors in this dismal pit. Please, come closer.”

This man is a conundrum and not just based on his feeble state. His accent is one that Jollain can’t determine. It’s not the all too different from the dunmer of Vvardenfell, but clearly not the same either. And while his expression depicts the fact that he’s elated to have visitors, it is also imbued with a hint of deep sorrow, a reaction that is hard to pinpoint. It is most overt in his relatively healthy eyes.

“Uh, hey there”, says Jollain, trying to not be shy, but he’s a strange sight for her.

“I am Yagum Bagarn! Oh, I suppose you already know that. Why else would you be here? Never mind. What shall I call you, my young friend?”

“Jollain is fine.”

“Jollain! Intriguing. Not a common Valenwood naming convention, to my recollection.”

The bosmer corrects her hair a bit.  
“Oh uh, yeah, I’m from Cyrodiil.”

“Ah, of course! Now the pieces fall together. The heartland, realm of conquerors since long before the time of men. Have not had the opportunity to visit in the last few centuries, sadly enough. Such is my misfortune.” He shakes his head. “Oh well. Can I presume you are here to collect the boots?”

Jollain nods and crosses her arms.  
“For Divayth, yeah. He didn’t mention what they look like, but…”

“No need to fret, I know which pair he seeks.” Once more, he spins around in a gradual fashion, turning towards the table.  
“I do wish I had more time, but alas”, he says reluctantly. “I have done my very best, but my gracious keeper may not be entirely content with the results. And no matter what Lord Fyr might assume, my repairs are not to blame. No, it is most definitely the nature of the boots themselves. Any bumbling nitwit could have crafted boots of such low quality as these. Ah, it shames me that my race will undoubtedly be judged by the work of lackluster dimwits in all future history.”

While she listens to his yammering, Jollain remains slightly bemused.  
“What do you mean?”

Unfortunately, he misunderstands her intended inquiry.  
“Lord Fyr did not inform you? Well, you see, he obtained these enchanted boots of dwemer craftsmanship from a hapless thief and due to the phenomenally uninspired performance, it is no wonder the dolt stumbled.” Yagrum lifts up the brass-colored footwear. “It is regrettable, but I can do little for them. The integral enchantment is flawed. If I had more time, supplies and pertinent tools, I could craft them anew, but no such chance exists, it seems.”

Jollain doesn’t fully listen to his babbling about the boots. There’s another element of his explanation which is far more fascinating.  
“Hold on! Who are you? Are you saying that you’re…?”

He turns to look at her with further comprehension.  
“Did Lord Fyr not specify? It’s true – I am Yagum Bagarn, the last living dwemer. Or ‘dwarf’ as we have come to be known by later generations.”

The bosmer widens her eyes in utter shock. This wasn’t at all what she had-…was this the reason Divayth sent her here? Or did he really need the boots?  
“But that’s-…you’re not even that short!”

Yagrum blinks in puzzlement.  
“What?” It doesn’t take very long for him to evaluate the question, letting out a short laughter.  
“Oh, I see now. Yes, the confusion is warranted.  
Our size in legend is a misconception and the use of ‘dwarf’ a contemporary moniker. We were surrounded by many tall races in distant past – nedes, ayleids, falmer and chimer being the most prominent – but by modern standards, we would be fairly average. ‘Dwemer’, through conversion from ancient Aldmeris, should be translated to ‘deep ones’ or ‘people of the deep’.”

Jollain’s mouth is left agape for a few seconds, as she tries to process what he’s telling her. It’s absolutely astounding.  
“Wait, so you’re…you’re actually a dwar-…uh, dwemer?”

“Indeed, I am. I style myself as the last, though I cannot prove this with an irrefutable truth. In my travels thousands of years ago, I never encountered any other; not in Tamriel, nor any of the outer realms. Lord Fyr met with the same result.”

This is overwhelming information. Jollain and people across the lands know of the ancient race, of course, but mostly via fairytales. In fact, Jollain herself began to believe they were merely myth.  
“I…dunno what to say. I kinda thought your race was just a story, but…well, I mean, I had expected to meet another infected, not a legend.”

Yagrum impedes his excitement of speaking to another soul a smidgen and sighs.  
“I’m hesitant whether I can be classified as such, thought I admit that many would presumably view me as an oddity. If you are willing to converse with an old man a little, I would relish the opportunity. I rarely receive lucid guests, you see. I would be glad to relay my tale.”

“Oh, uh, sure! I mean, I’m no intellectual or anything, but a story is always nice.” She strolls over to one of the chairs nearby and sit down. She’s not exactly afraid to get sicker than she already is.  
“Where are you from?”

By now, the dwemer has removed his glasses and placed them on top of the book that he laid on the table.  
“Here in Resd-…ah, Morrowind, I suppose would be the correct modern term, near the region you know as Red Mountain. Once, I was a Master Crafter in the service of Lord Kagrenac, chief architect of the great Second Empire’s freeholds and the greatest enchanter of his era.  
Naturally, I could never match such brilliance, but whatever I could envision, my colleagues and I could construct.” He strokes his beard and exhales in sorrow. “Regrettably, any such notions are long gone. My cunning and proficiency have been preserved, but my hands and eyes have failed me ages ago. Even my memories are no more than faded remnants, evading my grasping mind.”

Jollain’s shoulders slumps a little.  
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Must suck to have lost so much.”

“A most apt description, sera. My sole solace in this misery is to curse and deride the gods each day, for destroying my race and condemning me to such a bleak existence. It was wrong and heartless!”

Jollain lowers her gaze, entirely unable to even imagine the concept of being the last one to exist in this world.  
“But, I don’t get it. If they’re all gone, how come you’re stranded here? Is it Corprus’ fault?”

Yagrum takes a deep breath and leaves his short arms on his large protruding abdomen.  
“No, that is merely a consequence. I have been alone since they vanished, trapped in this corporeal prison. I can scarcely move, and the plague victims are hardly adequate company. The risks involved in traversing these halls dissuade any more scholarly characters. And I regret to mention that, seeing as how you are infected, you with presumably suffer the same fate.”

“Mm, I know. Fyr might have a way out for me, though. Mentioned a potion that I’m gonna try.”

“Ah, one of his latest concoctions, is it? They tend to conclude in fatal outcomes, but if you do survive, I would not mind if you spread the rumor of my existence. I would adore more guests.”

Jollain displays a faint smile.  
“Yeah, I bet. How’d you come here?”

“Oh, I owe my life to Lord Fyr, who brought me in during the worst of my ill woes. I was trapped in a cage of violent dementia for an extended period. It took patience and delicate maneuvering, but my gracious keeper deftly guided me back to lucidity. Sadly, I emerged with the knowledge that my body had been twisted into this grotesque blob. Most ungracious.  
I maintain some slim hope of a cure one day, but who knows when or if that day shall come? Lord Fyr has tried an ample supply of mixtures, tonics and elixirs, all without success. I have not perished yet, though, which is a small comfort.”

Now that he has explained his story, Jollain wishes to return to her previous inquiry.  
“Okay, go back a little. So, the dwemer disappeared. But how? You guys were supposed to have fought the dunmer at some point, right?”

Yagrum nods with a modicum of caution.  
“Yes, or more accurately, the chimer. It is still unclear to me how this transformation occurred.”

“You don’t know?”

“I do not. I was not present when this event transpired. I was travelling through the Outer Realms at the time, worlds beyond Nirn which my people had learned to roam long ago. When I arrived in my home once more, they were gone. Faded, without a trace.  
With no answers in the Red Mountain, I departed and began to wander the continent for many years. I searched every colony that I could reach, but all were deserted with no conceivable clarifications. It was utterly baffling and eerie, as if they had disintegrated. Unfortunately, as I made my return to the mountain, to seek familiarity, I contracted this contemptible ailment.”

His words are as confounding as they are interesting to Jollain. She doesn’t feel any wiser than before she asked.  
“That’s so weird. I mean, how does an entire race just up and go ‘poof’? That shouldn’t be possible, right?”

He lifts his arms in a shrug.  
“It is the ultimate enigma of this world, one I wish I could enjoy and not be the victim of. I do have theories, however.”

“Oh? Wanna share?”

“Well, if I were to speculate, and this is merely conjecture, I would say that Lord Kagrenac, being the foremost arcane philosopher and magecrafter of our era, may have devised tools to shape mythopoeic forces, with intentions of transcending the boundaries of dwemer mortality.”

“Oh. He wanted to become immortal?”

“Why, of course. Doesn’t every person of power, to enhance their own legacy?” He taps a finger over his chin.  
“I do recall that, during those years, while reviewing the specifications and fundamental principles, some theoreticians argued that the side effects were unpredictable and any mistakes, even minor, would be absolutely cataclysmic.  
Therefore, one conclusion could be that he succeeded with achieving immortality for our race, but they were somehow displaced to the Outer Realms. Although, I never discovered where they would have been teleported. The other possibility, of course, is that they were all wiped out. The latter would be…most disheartening and depressing.”

“Yeah, I bet. But, if this happened, wouldn’t it have done the same to you? I mean, were all dwemer on Tamriel when it struck? Were you literally the only person in the Outer Realms back then?”

Yagrum fondles his beard once more.  
“Hmm. I hadn’t considered that angle. Or have I?  
I do admit it’s an improbable situation. There were always a few of us who left Tamriel simultaneously.”

“Well, then maybe there’s still people out there looking for you? Or what if there was like, another force that protected you? You weren’t here, so maybe someone’s magic warded off whatever this Kagrenac guy did.”

The old dwemer contemplates her suggestion for a few moments, before he sighs.  
“It is a mystery, one I will likely never solve, unless Lord Fyr can cure me. In any case, I thank you for giving an old man a chance to gripe for a short while.”

Jollain rises from her seat now, smiles and extends her hand for him to shake.  
“Hey, I should thank you too. Never figured I’d speak to a dwemer. If I survive, that’ll be a story I tell my grandkids, trust me.”


	25. Elevated cure

A few strenuous and difficult hours later, Jollain returns to the surface of Tel Fyr. It does feel nice to depart from the gritty aura of the caverns, but any comforts she received below is also dispersed upon emerging. Almost right away, she begins feeling a little light-headed and the illumination from the more prevalent torches here strain her eyes, ones that were already fairly tormented by sickness.

However, she fights the increasing urge to just lie down and weep, an emotion that her body is begging her to comply with, for she will not surrender. She has gone through too much to cave in when she’s at the final stretch.  
Another potion is provided to her by Beyte, free of charge this time, by orders from Divayth, so that she can ascend the levitation tube as quickly as possible.

Immediately upon arrival, her friends flock to her from the rooms they’ve been staying in while remaining as guests of Divayth. The trio closes in on her and Tayerise especially looks highly relieved.  
“Jollain! Oh thank the Three. I wasn’t sure if-…never mind.” She watches the bosmer and the way her eyes dart back and forth gives Jollain the assumption that the dunmer wants to embrace her, but restrains herself for now.  
“Are you okay?”

The shorter elf lifts her hand, corrects her hair and takes a moment to collect her thoughts. They’re in shambles right now, much like the rest of her body.  
“Eh, felt better.”

Vaziri folds her arms into the sleeves of her robes and lets out a small snort.  
“You have roamed for a few hours underground, encircled by a mass of highly diseased entities, so one could’ve feasibly predicted some discomfort.”

“Yeah, but that’s not-…what I mean is, it wasn’t a horrible experience or anything. The people down there didn’t attack me. In fact, they were kinda nice.”

Another person is nearby and Alfe, Divayth’s mordant daughter, inserts herself in their conversation.  
“Truly? Now that is peculiar. I was sure they would pounce on you like a family of kagouti. You must have reached the later stages of Corprus then, enough to wear the guise as one of them.”

This is obviously not a positive revelation, for Jollain must have very little time left, before she can no longer remain as she is.  
“Guess so. Think I want that potion now.”

Not that they require her assistance, but Alfe still decides to guide them back to Divayth’s study, where the old man, compared to their last encounter, actually waits for them.  
“Ah, and so the tenacious patient returns”, he muses and plants his arms behind his back. “I trust you’ve acquired my boots?”

Jollain nods and strides right up to him, unceremoniously dropping the footwear straight on his desk.  
“There you go. Not in perfect condition, but the best that he could do.”

The old wizard merely shrugs as he gives the boots a cursory glance.  
“I never expected them to be fully restored, but I surmised he would stretch his performance. It is as optimal as I can retrieve them, most likely.”

“That’s what he said too.” She crosses her arms and considers whether she should say more or not. It doesn’t really matter, but if this was his intention all along…  
“I spoke to Yagrum, by the by. It was a pretty…interesting conversation.”

Though he has almost only shown very solemn and grim expressions, a faint smile now appears on Divayth’s features, perhaps a level of smugness.  
“Yes, I anticipated that you would savor the experience. He is an entertaining f’lah and an astute mind; a diversion to some, but a friend to me.”

“Tsk. Not all hope is lost, huh? Well, you were right, I guess. I did learn something about my fate and I never expected to be talking to someone like him. Not sure if he left me with answers or more questions, though.”

“As is the paradox of physical reality. If there is one thing I have parsed from so many millennia on this realm, it is the irrefutable fact that you will never be omnipotent. Desperately coveting all that eludes you is therefore meaningless. Some things will always be shrouded.”  
The rest of the group look fairly bemused, as they obviously don’t have the full context, but the duo keeps the answers as their little secret for now.  
Shortly after, he fetches a bottle from one of his boxes in the back of the room, which he had promised to her earlier. He holds it up, showing the strange, thick and yellowish liquid within, something viscous, that he swirls around in its container.  
“And here we are. The potion to your salvation or impending demise.”

She studies the bottle from her position, feeling how it gets her heart racing and her mind spinning with a million pathways. There are so many aftereffects to this moment that she doesn’t know what emotion to embrace.  
“Doesn’t look sujamma.”

“No, this is not, by all evidence, a drink which will satisfy your taste buds. Nevertheless, it is yours. I shall grant you the chance to consume it, but under one condition – you must imbibe it here, before my eyes. Let me make this clear – it is not a request, but a stipulation. If you decline, it remains in my possession.”

She stares into his crimson gaze, seeing no opportunities of compromise here.  
“What, you really wanna watch?”

He rolls his eyes.  
“You misunderstand. This is not a voyeuristic endeavor, but a matter of science and medical concern. The liquid is exceedingly potent and will act in a near instant fashion, as soon as it delves into your innards. It will begin to suffuse and insert itself in every accessible section of your body, to transform all strains of the disease.  
This is why so many of my previous test subjects have failed, for their bodies were overwhelmed by the efficacy, unable to remain unscathed by such immense pressure that they simply…fragmented.  
I cannot pledge that the same will not happen to you either, which is why I give you this one warning – if you drink it, you may die in just a few minutes and none of us can save you.”

Jollain stares at the potion instead of Divayth as he speaks, taking a steady and lengthy breath, to prepare herself for the words that she cannot escape. It’s been on her mind ever since his first declaration, but now it’s time to pick a choice.  
“Okay. I’ll drink it.”

While Divayth nods tersely, with a hint of respect, the rest of the team shows further reluctance.  
“Hold on”, says Tay and approaches her girlfriend. “Are you sure this is what you want? I mean, this is…vital.”

Maak-Veh inclines his head in agreement.  
“This may be your final moments on Nirn, if Lord Fyr here has miscalculated.”

Divayth frowns at him.  
“Excuse me? Miscalculated?! I don’t know who you are, ser, but let me make it abundantly clear that I-“

His complaints end when Jollain interferes, ignoring his hurt pride.  
“Well, I mean, sure, I hands down don’t wanna die, but what other choice do I have, huh? To me, it looks like I either drink this potion or become another inmate in old Fyr’s snot grotto. If you’ve got some other suggestion for how to get me outta here in a fresher state, I’m all ears.”

Sadly, no one utters anything that can resemble hope. Vaziri can do nothing but shrug.  
“It is…a cruel fate that has befallen you, my friend. Make whatever selection you prefer, I say. But should you choose to continue as you are, know that I willingly offer the mercy of my blade, if the pain is too unsurmountable.”

A grisly notion, no doubt, but Jollain doesn’t seem too deterred. She’s already pretty fatalistic at this point. One who is far more disapproving is Tay, who frowns at the khajiit.  
“Vaziri, please, don’t say such things while she’s already facing misery.”

“You may not appreciate it, sera, but death can be a salvation.”

Maak tries to ignore the bickering ladies and concentrate on Jollain.  
“I suppose we simply wished to give you one last chance to step back and view the situation for what it’s becoming. It’s not easy for any of us, but this may be your final opportunity.”

Tay nods quickly.  
“Yeah, I feel the same. I don’t want to lose you, Jollain, no matter what. However, I realize this is your life and I can’t force you.” She hesitates and bites at her lip, trying to determine how to best phrase the next section.  
“But…if the worst comes to happen, I…I want you to know that I love you.”

Even here, in this bleak prospect, practically at Arkay’s door, Jollain finds some source that makes her smile. She wishes dearly that she could embrace her beloved without endangering her.  
“I know. Love you too, Tay. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If this goes sideways, remember that.”

Vaziri bows her head slightly.  
“It has been an honor to know and train you, Jollain. You gave me hope of a new future in this land, one I had not anticipated.”

“Indeed”, Maak concurs. “I have never had a student or…partner like you.”

Words that warm Jollain’s heart, but also makes her smirk.  
“Tsk. Getting sentimental on me now, Maak? I remember you calling me sloppy way back when.”

Maak snorts amusedly and shakes his head.  
“I suppose I am. You have come a long way since those days and I am proud to have witnessed your development.  
Should you not return from this journey, I will make sure that the Blades remember you. And…may Sithis shield you from the Void.”

It’s rare for Maak to express matters of faith, but Jollain is glad to accept his prayers. There are no words from Alfe, and most definitely not from Divayth, when she looks at him.  
“If you expect more from me, I must disappoint”, he tells her. “I don’t stand on ceremony. All I’m interested in is the outcome of this test.”

“Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t gonna force a speech outta ya. Just gimme the potion.”  
Once she snatches it from his grip, there’s a fleeting notion of reluctance which instills her heart, that she should retreat and pursue another route. She knows this is folly and irrelevant, as she has already elected to follow this path. There are no more take backs.  
“Here we go, I guess.”

She eventually pulls off the cork, tosses it onto the floor and pours the liquid straight down her throat.  
At first, she doesn’t really think much of it. Sure, it’s sort of weird and uncomfortable, as it’s basically like pouring half a liter of slime directly down her gullet, but there’s no initial adverse or hurtful effect. She’s actually a little disappointed, as Divayth’s description had her foreseeing a cataclysm.

Of course, she underestimates the potency. Soon enough, the searing pain commences, as the ingredients begin their vigorous expansion through every segment of her flesh and entrails.  
“Ugh. What the flying fuck? This stuff is vile!”

Divayth shrugs nonchalantly.  
“I never implied it would be a soothing ordeal. Prepare yourself, sera. It is not over.”

Naturally, he isn’t wrong and the deeper the process transforms, the harder it becomes for her to endure. It begins with an itching in her throat, which expands to stinging sensations in her fingers, then her arms and legs. The itching converts into dryness and then a swelling which festers to such a degree that she starts to choke. Her eyes practically burst aflame, and her legs cannot carry her for much longer. She wants to scream, but her body does not have the energy nor the capacity for it anymore. She eventually succumbs, passing out due to excruciating agony.

* * *

  
During this latest stage of her journey, Jollain has already fallen into many hazing illusions, hallucinating about things that have been, will be and could be, mostly due to the ferocity of the disease. In fact, she can’t be sure that her visit to the Corprusarium didn’t involve some unconscious moments too, for she can’t fully remember her entire stroll. They said she had been gone for hours, but she can recall no more than a brisk walk. But now, she dreams, like she has never dreamt before.

This time, the visions are far briefer and less unclear, for some of them have unveiled their stories to her in the past. They could be viewed as flashbacks, but not entirely.  
First, she sees an older human man, probably past his middle age, with pale skin and grey shoulder length hair, dressed in a lavish attire. He gazes out through a window in his elevated location, as a vast domain sprawls out before him. His aura divulges his troubled disposition.

Eventually, he turns to view Jollain as she lingers in the center of the grey stone room and she can observe the golden pendant hanging from his neck, with the large gleaming ruby in the center. He looks deeply and solemnly into her eyes.  
_“Do not stray or tarry, operative. Your success shall inflame the Empire.”_

She doesn’t gain any chances to ask for answers or clues as to what he means, for the floor suddenly opens below her and she falls into darkness, traversing the dreamscape into another vision.  
Her landfall occurs in a familiar realm, as the sweltering heat pours onto her. As she lifts her eyes, she spots another entity, there, in the center of a churning and fuming landscape. The golden mask is a dead giveaway as to where she ended up, as she has encountered it too many times to forget its purpose.

His location could almost be described as a throne room, as overwhelming as it is. He raises his left arm and hand, conjuring dark magic into the palm of his fist, which quickly grows to envelop his body.  
_“Hortator! Welcome to destiny!”_

He fires a beam of rupturing energy, which annihilates her existence from this domain, though all it does is transfer her into another reality.  
Thankfully, this place is much more serene and unaffected, near timeless. She sits on a circular craft, like a cradle that protects her from the dark lake which it floats upon. She swiftly realizes that she has seen it before, though it has been a very long time since her last visit, one she had virtually forgotten. This was the first of her strange dreams, over a year ago.

She feverishly looks around and is not disappointed. Several meters away, she observes a gentle figure, the dunmer in a long set of blue robes, with alternating shades. The basket which Jollain remembers eating from rests in the left hand, while the crescent-shaped lantern dangles in the right. Her fully white and irisless eyes stare at Jollain and a hint of a smile is offered to her.  
_“The stars’ embrace beckons, rising moon. Anticipate their calling.”_

The woman lifts her lantern and the light shining from it intensifies, until it becomes blinding.  
It takes several moments to subside, but when Jollain next regains her sight, she finds herself in the last new location, a platform overlooking a vast scenery. It interweaves several aspects at once – the Ashlands, the Bitter Coast and the Inner Sea.

At first, she believes that she’s alone, but this is a lie she perpetuates on herself. Thankfully, there is nothing nefarious behind her company.  
She sees an elf walking up over the edge, dressed in a sturdy set of armor, of refined bonemold and chitin. His skin is pale gold and his eyes shimmer with intent. In his ear hangs a piercing of an unfamiliar sign, but the tattoo over his face is one she can easily identify – a crescent and a star.

Once she glances at his hand, she notes how he holds a flaming torch, which his gaze drifts from over to her. He strolls towards her casually, without haste or fear. As he stops in front of her, the two stare at each other, scrutinizing and at the same time knowing exactly what this encounter entails. This meeting is long awaited.  
He dips his head slightly in respect and she mimics. Soon after, he offers the torch to her and Jollain, with a little bit of ambivalence, accepts it.

_“Your journey takes flight. Never fear what you can accomplish.”_

* * *

  
Her eyes suddenly shoot open with ardent speed and her lungs takes the deepest and most urgent breath she has ever experienced. She finds herself in reality once more, in a waking state, lying on the floor inside Tel Fyr. She’s back. She’s _alive_.

Maak, Vaziri and Tay are all here, kneeling by her side with widened and expectant gazes, blocking most of her view. Her girlfriend almost has tears in her eyes.  
“Thank the Three, you survived!”

Despite previous warnings, Tay clutches Jollain’s arm. While the bosmer wants to speak and ask her things, all of the trio are soon pushed aside by the scowling wizard in the area.  
“Make room, you simpletons! You’re obstructing my work.”

“But-”, Tay begins, but never finishes.

“If you don’t permit me to finalize my inspection, I cannot guarantee the potion’s success. Do you wish to challenge this possibility, sera?”  
The warrior sighs in frustration, but eventually lets go of her girlfriend, though chooses to remain nearby. She’s not letting Jollain out of her sight now. Divayth offers a hand to his patient and helps her into a seated position, but only so he can start touching her face and body.  
“Let me see your skin. Yes, nothing on your cheeks, neck or arms. Very good. Hmm, yes and your eyes appear to have fully returned to their previous condition. Open your mouth, please. Yes, no signs of any malignant swellings.”  
In a surprising turn of events, the wizard swaps his focused expression for an entertained one, as he stands up and emits a satisfied laugh.  
“Extraordinary! You are my very first subject to have recovered from this procedure. I am beyond impressed by the success. An utterly remarkable outcome.”

With the opportunity given, Tay resumes her previous activity and tenderly wraps her arms around the bosmer. She kisses her cheek and holds her, not caring about the potential perils.  
“I’m so relieved, dear. I can’t even-…” She swallows and leans back a little, to study her girlfriend’s reaction. “How are you feeling?”

Jollain has so far allowed everything with a passive acceptance, as she finds it very strange to be able to move.  
“I…dunno. Kinda raw, I guess and my throat still fucking burns. Definitely better than before, though. My head doesn’t hurt anymore, and I can breathe normally.”  
She shifts in order to face the wizard.  
“You’re positive that the disease is gone?”

Divayth, who had already moved back to his desk, to begin scribbling new notes, throws a cursory glance towards her.  
“Pardon? No, of course not.”

“…what? But you said-“

“My explanations were somewhat liberally executed. You are still very much infected.”

This revelation shocks the entire group, who had not expected to hear such words. Did he just admit that he has mislead them?  
Tay grimaces, clenches her fist and rises with an infuriated glare.  
“You fucking arrogant s’wit! How dare you trick us like this?!”

As no one tries to stop her, Tay seizes his arm in an unyielding grip and slams him into the wall. He is nowhere near physically strong enough to oppose her. He grits his teeth at the impact, but his armor thankfully protects him. He frowns at her and starts to squirm instantly.  
“Stop this! Unhand me, you brute!”

“I should split you in half, you despicable bastard!”

“I didn’t state that she was ill, now did I?! You did not allow me to finish my information.”

Tay is panting through her nose loudly and furiously, but fights off the urge to headbutt him.  
“Tay, calm down”, Jollain tells her. “Give him a chance to clarify.”

With reluctant grunt, she pushes him away.  
“Go on then. But if you lie to us…”

He scoffs and waves dismissively, before brushing his gauntlets.  
“I can disintegrate you in a matter of seconds, so don’t try such weak attempts at threats with me, girl.  
Yes, sera Jollain, you do still have the Corprus disease and barring any unforeseeable consequences, this shall remain. If you recall our previous meeting, I mentioned that the potion would cure the _symptoms_. Do you understand? All the adverse elements which tormented you – the dreams, the mental effects, the growths, the corruptions. All gone.  
You have, however, maintained all the benefits, just like I planned.”

Slowly and steadily, the realization begins to fester in Jollain’s mind and she widens her eyes.  
“The…the benefits?”

“Indeed. The immunity to disease, the inability to age and I suspect increased stamina and pain thresholds – they are all yours.”

Jollain looks down into her hand, once more showing the healthy light brown, without any parasitic lumps or cracks.  
“I’m…immortal?”

“So I suspect, from all cell and tissue developments which I have been able to study. I did partially trick you, or at least omitted the full truth, but I hope you will acknowledge that it was in a most advantageous fashion.”

The rest of the team are stunned, in startled shock and stare at her. Eventually, Vaziri is the first to speak, as she recites a specific line.  
“Neither blight nor age can harm him. The Curse-of-Flesh before him flies.”

They can’t ignore the truths they are now presented with – the Nerevarine has risen.


	26. Facilitating hope

Time has not stopped. Tayerise had almost forgotten that a world existed outside of their little team, beyond the limits of the arduous existence that she and her friends have entered, ever since fate thrusted a near world-changing responsibility into their arms. Despite all the hardships they’ve had to endure in the past few weeks, it’s good to know that Nirn has not faltered with them. It gives her hope for a sustainable future, as her team once more strives to reach the surface of a normal life, or at least above mere survival.

In the aftermath of Jollain’s successful defeat of Divayth’s dubious potion, the team chose to linger in the vicinity of Tel Fyr for a few more days. Not only did they feel an avid urge for increased rest, but there was also an explicit desire to digest all of the events and to make sure that Jollain had reached a healthy condition. Their host had assured them that his concoction had achieved what it was meant to do, but none of them could be entirely without ambivalence. Corprus isn’t something you just shrug off in the blink of an eye.

Despite Tay’s almost irresistible yearning to hold her girlfriend close once more, she has managed to constrain herself long enough to wait until they can unquestionably infer that it’s safe.  
Thankfully, thus far, Jollain’s well-being has not deteriorated, as far as everyone else has observed and she had recently expressed a preference to leave the island soon. Not that she’s dislikes this place, nor is she ungrateful, but they do have a mission to conduct.

The Fyr ‘family’, if they can appropriately be deemed as such, has been fairly accommodating of the team’s needs, granting rooms and supplies to eat, even to the fisherman that has stuck around on the island.  
Vaziri has shown some minor discomfort, of course, as she irregularly regains memories of her past life and the captivity within House Telvanni.

In comparison, Maak finds Telvanni to be generally fairly odd, but he hasn’t been all too worked up about their location, probably due to the fact that they’re near water. His friends had during the journey through the Ashlands noted how the harsh and dry environment could get difficult for him to cope with, but he withstood all of the adversity. Here, with water both around them and in the air, he doesn’t exactly thrive, but he has a much easier time to meditate. Probably why he’s outside practically every hour.

The team has occasionally attempted to converse with the Fyrs, but they are as inaccessible as they are eccentric. The majority tend to have fleeting interest in casual conversations. Beyte and Delte are constantly buried in piles of administrative tasks, though the former does gladly answer household-related questions. Alfe has grown bored with the group and therefore distances herself and Uupse, while a very friendly woman, visits the surface so rarely that they hardly ever get to greet her.

Unsurprisingly, Divayth is the worst of all five, although none of them can call him cruel. Like many Telvanni, he’s simply ruled by a desire for solitude and to advance his intellectual pursuits. If he’s conducting an experiment, he does not wish to be disturbed and will go so far as to create magical barriers outside his lair, if they attempt to intrude. All other times, his attentiveness will depend on the topic. He can be mildly demeaning, of course, viewing those of non-scholarly mentalities to be tedious, but he is also adaptive enough to periodically reply to queries and greet his guests with viable decorum.

One such time occurs today, as Tay leaves her room in order to find Jollain. The bosmer wasn’t in the area where she’s supposed to be, so the dunmer had to go on a little hunt. When she strides past the door to the Corprusarium, she notes how it opens up, but instead of seeing her quarry, she spots the old wizard exiting.  
“Hmm, I should’ve expected such repercussions”, he grumbles. “But that latest tweak should’ve proven fruitful. Maybe less viridian dust will do the trick. I should write this down…”

That’s when he notes who stands on the other side of this hallway. The two of them have conversed very sparsely since he healed Jollain. Tay has to acquiesce that she has been rather reluctant due to her outburst. She may have overreacted a tad and the only time she willingly went to see him afterwards was to give a terse apology, one he virtually ignored.

“Hmm. Ah, one of my former patient’s cohorts”, he says with a little bit of surprise. “You’re still here? I would’ve assumed you had departed by now.”

He hadn’t realized they stayed? Just how aloof is this man? Or is he doing it on purpose towards her?  
“We’re still awaiting Jollain’s full recovery. She was feeling rather drained after drinking the potion. You gave us permission.”

“Did I? Hmm. Very well, I suppose I won’t object to your presence.”

Tay folds her arms and rolls her eyes. Hoping to switch subjects, she throws a cursory glance to the door.  
“What were you doing in there?”

“In the Corprusarium?” He holds up a few empty glass bottles. “I have been trying to administer the same potion that transformed my first successful specimen, in hopes of developing a cure that we can mass-produce.” He furrows his brow and peers at the containers with dissatisfaction. “Sadly, I seemingly cannot replicate the process. The victims reported a partial improvement at first, but both of their bodies soon began to convulse and contort, until they expired.”

He’s been experimenting? Tay doesn’t like the sound of that and frowns.  
“Why would you do that? Is it really worth throwing away two lives?”

Divayth merely snorts.  
“Your wailing is unnecessary. They volunteered, like all my procedures.”

Did they? Are the people down there even capable of remaining lucid enough to provide consent? Jollain seemed to indicate they weren’t all completely gone, but…  
In the end, she acknowledges that she has no more desire to linger in his presence.  
“Well, good luck with that. Have you seen Jollain?”

He temporarily leaves his swirling thoughts that encapsulates his research and faces the taller dunmer.  
“The Nerevarine? Yes, she and I had a brief discussion regarding the nature of House Telvanni earlier. I believe she mentioned something about requiring a breath of fresh air.”

Another comment that makes her scowl. In the culmination of the finished trial, they inadvertently revealed the truth to him.  
“You shouldn’t call her that, at least not to her face. She hasn’t come to terms with the ramifications.”

Seeing no reason to entertain this idea, he waves nonchalantly and veers to another corridor, which leads to his levitation tube.  
“Her denial will be transitory. She can’t resist the whims of fate for long. Trust me, I have encountered enough ‘heroes’ in my lifetime to know their inevitable progress.”

With his disappearance, Tay sighs, but feels relieved she doesn’t have to continue the debate. She’s had enough of him. Instead, she chooses to follow his directions, heading to the area just outside the mushroom. She’s in luck, for Jollain is still idling here.  
She spots the bosmer standing no more than ten meters past the doorway, with her arms crossed. In the distance, by the shorelines of this isle, one can discern the playful figure of Amnet, who’s walking back and forth, sporadically emitting impatient grunts. The hints of a smile rests on Jollain’s lips, which is an auspicious sign. She has put on her trademark leather jacket, but wears a borrowed shirt and pants underneath. She’s ostensibly watching the guar, but does very little to interfere.

“Jollain?”

The thief shifts her stance towards the voice and views her girlfriend with a faint sense of joy, but one that is unmistakably displayed.  
“Hey there, beautiful. Looking for me?”

“Of course. Wanted to see how you were progressing.” She steers her attention to Amnet. “What’s he doing?”

Jollain chuckles, a sound that instills Tay with hope and comfort. It’s good to hear it again, without caveats.  
“Ah, he’s just being a lil’ silly.” She lifts her hand and points out to a few creatures over the sea. “See those netches over there? They’ve been floating around, dawdling above the waters for a while. Amnet wants to play, but they’re not having it.”

Tay knows that the sea isn’t really Amnet’s thing either. In fact, she doesn’t know how well he can swim, as she has never tried. Either way, her lips curl as well.  
“Mm, he does have a fondness for making new friends everywhere, though they rarely agree with him, particularly when they’re from another species.”

“Well, won’t fault for him trying. Not sure why anyone would turn our boy down. He’s the sweetest there is.”

While this is a fun topic of discussion, no doubt, Tay has another concern on her mind. She walks closer and slides a hand onto Jollain’s shoulder.  
“Are you alright? Feeling better today?”

The bosmer turns to face her beloved with a pensive expression, takes a deep breath and nods ardently.  
“Doing just fine”, she reports. “In fact, I’m better than ever. I mean, not that I’m spry or anything – not gonna climb Red Mountain tomorrow – but I can’t sense any more diseases or sicknesses at all. And not just like, the worst stuff, but everything.  
You ever drink a health potion? That rush you get to begin with, like you’re in prime condition to start sprinting a whole mile?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s not quite like that, but almost and it’s constant too. Feels like ol’ Fyr had a point.”

Tay won’t lie. While it’s good to hear that Jollain is doing better, she also wonders what this will mean in the long run. Will she become reckless and ready to gamble or is it simply a boon for future confrontations?  
“Well, he did mention that your…anatomy would be altered, or something along that route. The very structure of your ‘cells have been reconfigured at a molecular level’, whatever that means.”

Jollain smirks and shakes her head.  
“Sounds like a bunch of scholarly nonsense to me”, she acknowledges. “But he’s got a point. Probably. I do feel…different.”

She detects how Tay squeezes her shoulder somewhat.  
“Not in a bad way, I hope?”

“Nah, just like, you know, some kind of cleansing, I guess. Like my old self has been purged and replaced with a more robust woman. Maybe. I probably won’t beat you in a fight of strength yet.”  
With a playful glimmer in her eyes, she puts her hand on her rear and tilts her body a bit.  
“I dunno, what do you think? Does my butt look bigger?”

This startles Tay at first, before she tilts her head back and bursts into a gentle laughter.  
“Not really, but yours was always fairly…chunky.”

This makes the bosmer smirk and playfully nudge her shoulder into her girlfriend’s side.  
“Tsk. You love that butt, don’t even pretend.”

“I love all of you.”

While maintaining this pleasant exterior would be preferable, Jollain soon descends into the many burdens that weigh on her shoulders.  
“It’s fucking weird to consider the fact that I’m somehow immune to disease now, though. And immortal? I mean, I always hoped to outlive a bunch of the assholes I knew back in the capital, but this is kinda ridiculous.”  
She places her hand over her cheeks, stroking them as she ponders an element that is now becoming increasingly impossible to evade. Was it always a redundant mindset?  
“Guess it’s true after all, huh?”

Tay tilts her head inquisitively.  
“What is?”

“I must be the Nerevarine. For these past few…what’s it been, months now? It just felt so bizarre, y’know? Like it couldn’t possibly be real, that some shitty lil’ thief from Cyrodiil would be someone important. I think I was in such deep denial that I couldn’t see it. I was sure that the Emperor and the Blades were just using me, a disposable pawn to be ditched for the benefit of the so called ‘glorious Empire’.” She exhales curtly. “I probably dismissed him too quickly. Old Uriel must’ve seen this coming.”

“Well, if he sent you from prison over a year ago now, I don’t think he did so without careful consideration.”

Jollain trains her eyes on the ground with a faraway look, kicking a few of the rocks in the proximity.  
“I still don’t really know what in Oblivion he believed I’d do, but…I have had a lot of dreams lately. Pretty prophetic too.”

This is obviously not the first occasion that this topic has been mentioned and the duo has debated the nature of the golden mask and the Sleepers before.  
“You mean…Dagoth Ur?”

“Uh, yes and no. I mean, he’s involved, but that’s not the only thing I’ve seen. There have been some details that I’ve previously wanted to ignore, even when they were tossed right in my face. The reason I was afraid of those ghouls back in the Ashlands? Because I thought I’d become one.”

Tay is somewhat taken aback, widening her eyes.  
“What? How?”

Jollain has begun to pace slowly around her girlfriend, constantly facing the dirt below them.  
“I saw them and worse versions, all in my nightmares, how they were being molded and shaped in some deep lair. Could’ve been the Red Mountain, based on the heat. I was also turned into one or…uh, well, I’m not sure what happened to me. Something.” She exhales through her nose and shrugs.  
“It was all stupidly confusing and likely on purpose, to evade me. Never been the smartest girl.”

“Not true. You’re brilliant, Jollain, in every way.”

Another ephemeral smile glimmers onto her, as she playfully bumps into Tay during one pass.  
“Flatterer.”

Due to the proximity, Tay has the opportunity to stroke a hand over the soft copper hair.  
“With you, I only tell the truth.  
But…I can see why you were so afraid now. I feel for you, darling. Not sure I could’ve come out of that with my sanity intact.”

Jollain snorts.  
“And who says I did? Never been fully clearheaded, to be honest. But I’m over the dream stuff now. Well, mostly. I’d prefer to not suffer any more of ‘em, if possible. But…”  
She halts a few meters away and corrects her hair, contemplating whether she should continue. Why stop here?  
“Those weren’t my only experiences, really. I’ve had visions too, involving Nerevar, someone that must’ve been the Emperor, even Azura, I think. One time, I’m pretty confident that I _was_ Nerevar. Based on the landscape, I might’ve seen a sliver of the Battle at Red Mountain.”

Another facet that shocks Tay. Her little girlfriend has apparently gone through so many journeys all on her own, without the others’ notice.  
“Wait, are you serious? The…the legendary one?”

“Think so. Saw it all, really – the Ashlands, the united armies of Resdayn, the Tribunal as they used to be, the invaders...” She shakes her head to rediscover some serenity. She doesn’t want her head to start spinning with the implications again.  
“There was so much occurring at once. Because of the voice that kept harassing me – which I reckon was Dagoth Ur – I got the feeling that I might’ve received the real deal. Or as close to as he could give me. It’s hard to tell how skewed it was, though.” She lifts a hand and rubs her nose.  
“Anyway, it’s like my body has been shouting at me to embrace what I wanted to disregard, that I’m not who I always thought I was. That I’m…someone else.  
But you know what the worst thing is, what makes me fear the future? I dunno what in Oblivion I’m meant to do with all this shit.”

“By being the Nerevarine?”

She nods and gazes at the waters once more.  
“Yeah. Like, okay, so the Emperor accurately predicted my role, but how the fuck am I supposed to unite Morrowind? Not to forget that I somehow have to lead an army against some evil monster that lives in the volcano and then end the religious institution that also acts as Morrowind’s government. Me – the shitty mediocre thief from the Imperial City. I don’t know the first thing about military command!”

Ah, now it makes sense. Tay certainly won’t blame her for faltering here, but the dunmer senses that this is where she needs support, someone who has faith in her.  
“I know it may seem bleak, but all is not lost. We can always ask for advice from Legate Svalen. And the Urshilaku are bound to help you. They believe in the Nerevarine and the prophecy. They’ll get us started.”

Jollain folds her arms again and sighs heavily.  
“Wish I shared your optimism. We can’t prove I’m the Nerevarine yet, that I’m immortal. I mean, bottom line, they don’t believe that an outlander can be that person.”

“We’ll find a way, Jollain. Caius might have a suggestion once we return. And then there’s Mehra. She presumably has a ton of scrolls and books that can shed more light.”

An array of positivity is being sent towards Jollain, even though she’s trying to deflect them, they keep piercing the veil and filling her with belief. She finally steers her eyes back to her beloved.  
“Still so hopeful about this whole thing, huh?”

“I always believed in you, dear. I will continue to support you, no matter what.”

“Know what? Some days, I feel like you’re all that keeps me going.”

Tay smiles brightly, with more confidence, as she wraps an arm around Jollain’s shoulders.  
“We will solve this predicament, together. After all, who can possibly resist the prettiest lady on Nirn?  
Wait, scratch that – all of reality. The daedra and divines be damned.”

And here it comes, the laughter that Tay hoped to infuse her with. Jollain radiate with happiness for the first time in quite a while, of trust in a promising future.  
“Y’know, your charm is still atrocious. You’re lucky that you’re so hot.”

She leans into the woman that has so effortlessly captured her heart, slides both arms around Tay’s neck and pulls her down into a manageable position. Their eyes shut simultaneously, as their lips are drawn instinctively to one another, intersecting and intertwining, brushing and caressing with zest. Tay detects how her chest swells with incredible elation and desire, to be swept up in this maelstrom of passion that she has craved. Tay has not felt so invigorated in a long time.

“Missed my kisses, cutie?”, Jollain whispers in a small gap.

“More than life itself”, Tay articulates in between heavy breaths. In the subsequent moment, she places a firm hand right on the butt that Jollain previously complained about and lifts the bosmer into her arms, to intensify their interaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So this is a bit of a turning point in the story, I guess. When Jollain goes from denial to reluctant acceptance. Becoming immortal is a convincing argument_


	27. Hail the King of Blades

Once more, the group enters the bustling center of the West Gash, but this time with a sense of renewed hope and faith in the potential for success. When they left, death seemed to stalk them around every corner, waiting to strike and yet now, upon returning, it feels almost like the sun is gleaming with a bit of extra brilliance, just for them.

Very few aspects have changed in Balmora since their departure. The city functions as it previously had and have for centuries, the lifegiving Odai River floats freely and unhindered in the center, the people attempt to cling onto some form of normalcy, the friction between the Thieves Guild and Camonna Tong is perpetuated without delay and the Hlaalu Guard do everything in their power to protect the most important districts, leaving the poorer to fend for themselves.

Upon wandering the streets, the team picked up a few intriguing tidbits, the topics that are perched on most people’s tongues at this time. Foremost of these was of course the incessant prevalence of the Blight, a notion that cannot be ignored due to the fear. Number two was Vivec’s silence in light of such troubles and thirdly, without a doubt, is the increasingly open violence between the local Guild and Tong. People dread an actual clash, an underground war, of such magnitude that has never before been experienced in these regions.

Despite the urgency of some of these ideas, the team try their darndest to avoid it all. Right now, they have little interest in intrigue and the capricious natures of the egos in the shadows. Sadly, it appears that they will not be allowed to elude it.  
After Vaziri announced that she had to leave and make contact with her own network, the agents headed straight for Caius’ apartment, but their passage is impeded along the way. A group of individuals leap down from rooftops or slide out of shadows to surround them.

Jollain’s team is startled at first, putting hands on the hilts of their weapons, until they realize that these are neither Camonna nor House guards. The diverse nature of those present can only be signs of the Thieves Guild and curiously enough, they watch the quartet warily.  
“So tense, my dear”, says a voice with a non-Vvardenfell accent, currently out of sight. “This one could almost believe that you were anticipating an attack. A funny reaction, wouldn’t you agree?”

Once the figure exposes herself, Jollain steers her brown eyes into a familiar set of blue. A third mentor, one might say.  
“Habasi.”

The khajiit scrutinizes her, with arms folded and her body garbed in the regular leather gear.  
“Habasi is glad you remember, for I might have almost thought you had decided to forget us. You have been gone from Balmora a lot as of late.”

Jollain clears her throat and scratches the back of her neck in an awkward manner.  
“I…uh, yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

The local Guild leader raises her hand in an alleviating fashion.  
“No need for apologies, obviously, but since you are here, perhaps you can finally assist, yes? We have some pretty major operations and heists coming up. We could use an elusive type such as you, Jollain.”

The bosmer hesitates, sharing a glance with Maak. The argonian has a light scowl on his brow, but not one that is intended for her. If a fight ensues, he appears to be ready, though Jollain hopes that can be avoided. The Guild aren’t the sorts to act in such a brutal fashion anyway.  
“Habasi, I…I wish it was that simple, but you’re gonna have to forgive me, ‘cause I have no choice but to decline. Can’t help right now. We’re sort of in the middle of…a little quest.”

If she thought they’d get out of it with a feeble excuse like that, she will be disappointed. Habasi views her skeptically, pacing around the area where she was standing.  
“Busy again? This is not the first time you shirk your duty to the Guild in the last few months. You understand how that looks, don’t you?”

“What? C’mon, Habasi, that’s not fair. I helped you guys protect Dram Bero a while back.”

The leader runs her paws thoughtfully over her whiskers on one side.  
“True enough, but it doesn’t remove the fact that you are avoiding other activities. With the company you keep, the secrecy surrounding you, the reports that we continuously receive of your sightings in weird places and the constant silence…well, it gets one thinking.”

Jollain frowns, being most discontent with such blatant implications.  
“What, that I’m working with Camonna? Seriously? You know me better than that, Habasi.”

The khajiit snorts dismissively.  
“Not the Tong, silly girl. But certainly that you have other affiliations.”

The reluctance here is unavoidable. Divulging her true nature is not advisable, especially in this precarious scenario. The whole operation may become compromised.  
She veers to Maak once more.  
“Any ideas?”, she whispers.

“You know them best”, he replies in a similar tone. “The truth may be…too hefty, but perhaps they’d be satisfied with a hint of our intended goal?”

While they mumble, Habasi is getting impatient.  
“Going to leave Balmora again, I assume?”, she posits.

Jollain corrects her hair and tries to collect her thoughts. She hates that this is a situation only she can properly rectify.  
“Well…kinda, yeah. We’ve got some business here first.”

“With the old skooma dealer?”

The bosmer blinks bemusedly, while the other two grow tenser.  
“You know?”

Her superior shrugs nonchalantly.  
“Habasi has very keen eyes. And you have been less careful lately.”

With very few options being readily available, Jollain chooses to listen to Maak and gamble. She approaches the thief commander, stepping close enough that she can speak without letting anyone else hear.  
“Please, let us pass, Habasi. What we’re doing right now is…well, I don’t wanna brag, but it might change the very nature of Morrowind.”

An ostentatious declaration and Habasi searches through her protégé’s eyes and expression carefully, but Jollain remains steady.  
“Hmm. You genuinely believe that.”

“I know it.”

“What does it entail?”

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. Trust me, this shit is buck wild.”

Finally acknowledging that no facts will be disclosed to the degree she might’ve desired, Habasi lifts her arms in defeat and steps aside.  
“Very well, this one will let you go. But at least try to keep your loyalties in mind, eh? As the shadows close in around you, remember who your friends are.”

Satisfied with the conclusion, she smiles and caresses her superior’s arm.  
“I never forget. We’ll see each other again, Habasi. I can feel it.”

The local leader raises her hand, rotates it once and the Guild vanishes into the shadows as swiftly as they had appeared. Habasi gives Jollain one last nod, before she joins them.  
Her friends approach when the coast is clear.  
“You think they will become an issue in the future?”, Maak asks.

“Nah, doubt it. I trust Habasi. She may be a thief, but she’s a good one. She knows the value of honor in the shadows better than most. Besides, I got a hunch we’ll need ‘em at some point.”

Unfortunately, as the trio arrives in Caius’ apartment a little later, having left Amnet to guard outside again, they’re surprised and torn to note that Caius has dispensed with all notions of a disguise, as he’s apparently preparing to depart. The majority of his gear is packed in bags and he’s wearing clothes that actually look fairly respectable for once. It’s not like he never leaves for other tasks, but this extent of preparational measures is unprecedented.

“Caius? What’s going on?”, Jollain questions. “Are you leaving?”

Instead of replying, he looks at Jollain, scanning her appearance.  
“How did it go? You seem to be doing much better.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Divayth Fyr found a way to cure me. Sort of.”

The old imperial exhales.  
“That’s a relief to hear. The last thing I would’ve wanted to worry about was losing another agent.”

“Well, don’t be too excited just yet. Apparently, it didn’t remove the disease, just the nasty parts.”

Maak nods curtly.  
“Corprus is, according to the old wizard, more of a godly blessing that has gone awry, than a disease. She’s immortal and immune to all sickness now.”

Caius considers these concepts quietly to himself, his eyes traveling to the roof as his mind molds the significance.  
“Like the prophecy foretold.”

Leaning against the wall and slipping her arms behind her back, Jollain sighs briefly.  
“Pretty much. I’m fulfilling the trials. Yay me”, she states in an unsatisfied fashion.

“Well, to me, that’s still a win. Sounds like you’re right on track for where your mission is supposed to take you. Honestly makes me wish I could’ve seen it come to a close.”

The trio all look rather disconcerted, for now they’re resuming their previous apprehensions. It is Tayerise who voices it for them.  
“What exactly are you alluding to?”

After taking a deep and seemingly onerous breath, he pulls out his chair and gets seated.  
“Wanted to tell you earlier, but there was never a suitable moment, so it’s going to come pouring all at once. I’m not going to sugarcoat it – I’m being sent back to the Imperial City, right away. Emperor’s orders. Apparently, he needs me.”

It would be an understatement to call this a shock. It’s not just the words, but how they’re spoken with such finality. Tay doesn’t know how to react, but both Jollain and Maak are exceedingly uncomfortable.  
“Hold on”, Jollain blurts. “Permanently?”

“Right now, I don’t know. Might be, though, yes.”

“But…but that’s…”

Maak frowns and crosses his arms in displeasure.  
“Recalling you now, at the time of our most critical endeavor, seems…incredibly unwise.”

Caius is usually vehemently defensive of Uriel, or at least not one to criticize the monarch, but right now, he just nods.  
“I won’t dispute this argument, but I also have no other options. When the Emperor calls, you don’t disobey. You should know that by now.”

“The Emperor knew what you were doing, right?”, Tay suggests. “Why would he take you away from a mission that he deemed so essential?”

“As I have been gone from the capital for a very long time, I can only speculate. I surmise that it is presumably political in nature, intermingled with the Emperor’s own waning health. He’s not been feeling tremendously for the past few years and it’s getting worse. Perhaps he wishes to make arrangements for his heir.”

“Who is his heir?”

Caius strokes a thoughtful hand over his largely bald head.  
“Currently, I believe that’s Geldall, oldest of the three brothers.” He chuckles wistfully. “Haven’t seen any of those three in a while. Can’t help but view them as boys, no matter how old they get.”

While his reminiscence is not an aspect they would discourage, the group itself has other concerns. Jollain begins to conjure up a particular memory.  
“Hmm. We did receive news reports about unrest in the Imperial City. Might that be the issue?”

The joy on Caius’ face is fleeting and he returns to a somber value as he shrugs.  
“I honestly can’t say. The note I received was very vague.”

Tay’s emotions are ambiguous, Jollain is a little saddened, but Maak looks quite annoyed.  
“I have rejected all previous indications of this matter, but now I am beginning to wonder if people who say that the Order is abandoning us were right.”

Jollain, who’s unused to seeing Maak being legitimately disappointed in the Blades, is quick to voice her own trepidation.  
“Yeah, I agree.”

“Maak, please”, Caius interrupts. “No one is being abandoned. In fact, except for a couple of agents, everyone else is staying. You will proceed as before. I’m also allocating all available resources to you and your team, so that you can deal with your mission as rapidly and efficiently as possible. I don’t know when or if I’ll come back, so this seems like the most viable solution.”

The argonian shakes his head.  
“Not enough. You were the core of this province’s structure. How are we supposed to coordinate? Who will we take orders from?” He points a claw at the human. “And don’t tell me ‘the Emperor’, for that is ludicrous. He is too far away to comprehend the intricacies. Only you truly parse the underworld of Morrowind, out of all the higherups.”

His voice is adamant, but not loud or uncompromising. For being Maak, it is as near to yelling and shouting as one can get, which is remarkable. He never quite argues with Caius like this.  
“So you say, but that’s not entirely true, is it? The ones who have been most involved and best informed stand in front of me now. And to that end, I’m making some overhauls.  
First of all – Jollain, you are now second-in-command of the Vvardenfell Blade agents. This should give you more than enough authority to extract favors with the Legion if necessary, while you fulfill the prophecy.”

Unsurprisingly, she is stunned. Her mouth is left agape for a couple of moments, before she swallows and blurt her response.  
“Wait, you’re putting _me_ in charge?”

Caius arches his brow in light amusement.  
“Did you not hear what I said? I’m making you the _second_.” He then aims his eyes towards the argonian, some of that wistful sensation returning. This is a momentous day. “Henceforth, you will be following Spymaster Maak-Veh’s orders, effective immediately.”

Such a revelation is not just curious, but utterly baffling to Maak himself. He unwittingly takes a slight step back and tries to steady his posture.  
“Did you-…is this some sort of joke?”

Faint traces of a smile emerge on Caius’ lips.  
“Certainly not. It’s very real.”

“But I…I’ve never led anyone before. This can’t be-“

“Inaccurate. You’ve dealt with several scouting parties in the past, you’ve conducted numerous stakeouts and information gatherings. And every mission I’ve sent you three on, you have been in charge, Maak. There’s no one in this land that I trust more than you for this role, my friend.”

The elves and Caius observe as Maak slowly paces across the floor, while he lifts his other claws to scratch the scales on his neck. His tail drifts back and forth with hesitation.  
“This is…unprecedented. No saxhleel has ever held such a high position in the Blades before. And I…I have only ever followed.  
When you recruited me, to give me a new chance at life here, to make a difference, I always assumed I would be no more than another agent, a stream in the swamp.”

Caius inclines his head in recognition.  
“And this is exactly why you should take this position. You have more insight regarding the inner workings and procedures of the Blades, one who abhors notions of undue pride and hubris. You’ve worked on the ground level, several agents around Vvardenfell know of your skill and capabilities, you have built a durable net of contacts, and you’re cognizant of most tricks in the book.”  
His voice softens.  
“Ditch the doubt, Maak. You can do this, I know you can. Your experience, your skill, your observant nature, your ingenuity – they’ll all serve you here. Don’t try to argue with me.”

Despite Caius’ insistence, Maak still maintains an abundance of qualms, but merely until he’s brought over that threshold by his own student. Jollain smiles, walks up to him and squeezes his shoulder.  
“Think I speak for all agents in Vvardenfell when I say we could ask for no one better as our new boss.”

Tay nods fervently.  
“We’d follow you into Oblivion, if need be.”

Maak glances between the two, seeming a little miserable that they have to be so stubborn, but abandons his resistance with a sigh.  
“I…truly hope that won’t be necessary. Sithis preserve me, I’m uncomfortable enough as it is.”

“Tiber Septim himself believed that those who sit uneasily at the seat of leadership are the ones most suited for it”, Caius infers. “You’re meant for this.”

Reluctantly, Maak moves to the older man and shakes his hand.  
“Alright, I’ll accept. I shall do my very best to prove I’m worthy of this role.”

“And I know you’ll succeed. You’ll get all the information I’ve collected on Morrowind over the years. Most of it has already been transferred to a number of notebooks that I set in one of boxes here, which I prepared while you were gone. They will tell you all you need to know.  
For now, my final order – or recommendation, rather – is that you pursue the prophecy. There are many integral elements that have to be fixed around here, but the most imperative is to continue to the next stage.”

“I concur.”

“Yeah, about that”, Jollain starts, reentering the conversation. “We were planning to go see your pal Mehra in Vivec.”

Caius furrows his brow as a detail suddenly comes to mind.  
“Ah, yes, that’s probably the preferable path, but there’s a snag – she’s gone.”

The trio is taken aback. More blunt and worrisome news.  
“Gone?”, Tay repeats.

“Well, she’s been out of contact. The agent I sent to check in on her returned with news that miss Milo is not in any of her usual locations and no messages have been dispatched, as far as they could tell. There may be more inside the High Fane, but I’ve been unwilling to approve the mission until you came back.”

More disturbing details, problems that curb their progress. Then again, has any step so far gone smoothly? Unimpeded success seems antithetical to the Nerevarine’s fate. Strife and adversity are her life now.  
“Didn’t she say that the Ordinators were watching her?”, Jollain recalls.

“Indeed and I fear they may have finally seized her.”

Maak frowns and scratches the scales under his jaw, letting the options and outcomes churn in his mind until he comes to a decision.  
“Then we find Mehra Milo, rescue her if we must and see if she can’t provide us with the Lost Prophecies book. If the Nerevarine has risen, then we won’t permit the Temple to stop you from finalizing the trials, Jollain.”

The bosmer displays another smile and wraps an arm around his shoulders.  
“You know, this is why you’re the best teacher – won’t allow anyone to mess with your precious student.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Except for being Jollain's mentor, this was why I created Maak to begin with. Wanted to have a suitable replacement for Caius when he left._   
>  _I mean, sure, in the game Caius makes the player the acting leader, but the focus of her journey is to ascend as the Nerevarine._


	28. Purgatory of Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ready for a prison break and giving Maak-Veh a moment to shine?_

_“Amaya,_

_Sorry I missed you. I had to run some old documents over to the Inquisitor at the Ministry of Truth, and I’m likely to be tied up there for a while. Why don’t you meet me there as soon as you can? Then we can leave together once I’m done. And Amaya, be cautious upon approach. They’re a bit iffy on outsiders up here._  
_Alvela Saram is the guard at the entrance. Just tell her you’re looking for me and she’ll let you in._

 _your faithful friend,_  
_Mehra._

_PS. I left a couple of levitation potions here for you, just in case. I couldn’t remember if you knew.”_

This was the sight that met Jollain as she snuck into the Hall of Wisdom in Vivec and entered Mehra Milo’s office. All their hunches had transpired, and their fears come true.  
After procuring the potions, the group saw no other solution than to ascend to the Ministry of Truth, though they waited for the cover of night, knowing that only the shadows would protect them.

It is a dark and cold setting surrounding them on this gloomy early night. The wind is blowing intensely, the skies are filled with ominous clouds and as soon as they set foot on the planks around the gigantic floating moonlet, lightning ignites in the sky, heralding the subsequent pouring of rain.  
Is this a bad omen, a premonition of the gods’ disapproval or an auspicious sign that the weather intends to obscure their intrusion? The question is meaningless, for they will never receive an answer.

At these hanging heights, far above the roofs of the city, only one dunmer stands guard and though her age is indeterminable, they can easily discern her grey skin, pale red eyes, long brown hair and the intricate gold armor of the Ordinators. They presume that this must be Alvela and the poor sod doesn’t have any sort of protection prepared for the weather. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to care, as she is instead focused on the sight of unknown targets encroaching on her territory. She frowns, plants a hand on the hilt of her mace and scrutinizes the quartet. Amnet has had to remain in the stables.

“Halt! This is no place for outsiders. Leave, now.”

The entire group are clad in cloaks with hoods, to ward off the rain, but Jollain pulls down the cowl to reveal her face and then makes her hands visible.  
“Whoa, slow down. We’re here to meet with Mehra. You Alvela?”

This appears to settle the guard’s nerves, who releases her hold on the weapon and inclines her head.  
“You must be contingency then. The priestess told me that someone would come. I can assist you, but only loosely.”

“We appreciate it. Didn’t think any Ordinators would be that generous.”

“Most aren’t, but some of us do not agree with our superiors’ recent methods. We are ready to aid the Dissident Priests, if it means implementing some changes. Unfortunately, that might force us to clash with our comrades, something I’m not particularly keen on.”  
She slips her hands into a hole in her gear and fishes out a set of keys, which she hands over.  
“These will open all external doors, but beyond that level, you’re on your own. When they find me, I’ll tell my fellow guards that you knocked me out with magic and stole my keys.  
Oh, and Mehra said she had some type of escape plan, but you’ll have to ask her for the details. Likely involves the portal in the rear of the keep, though I’m unsure how safe that will be.”

“Much obliged. Uh, got any clues where we oughta look?”

Alvela nods sharply.  
“Follow this catwalk to the lower back entrance, where you’ll come to the Hall of Processing. Proceed through the first hallway and then take a right. The next tunnel will take you all the way around to the front. At the first crossroad, go the right and then another right, follow the shorter tunnel and find the prison keep on the left. Inside the keep itself, you have to reach the opposite end, past another door, before finally arriving at the holding cells. Mehra is, as far as I’m aware, still on the far right. The keys will either be in one of the desks in the keep, or the guard that’s on watch by the cells. The Processing halls should have fewer guards, but you still have to be mindful.  
Ah, and you should keep an eye open for the Grand Inquisitor, the man in charge of this jail. Big f’lah, notoriously loud and angry. Can’t miss him.”

Jollain shares a brief glance with her friends, before dipping her head in gratitude.  
“You’ve got our thanks. Good luck out here.”

“You too. You’ll need it.”

As they proceed along the railing-less pathway, they try to stay as far away from the edge as possible, to avoid mishaps. Falling off now would be most regrettable. The only one that doesn’t appear particularly fazed by the height is Vaziri.  
“This is absolutely surreal”, Tayerise professes. “It’s crazy that the Ordinators would detain a priestess, one of the Tribunal’s servants. This is not what the Temple should stand for.”

She hears a scathing snort from the khajiit.  
“You may finally have to open your eyes to the truth of your people’s religion – it was never pure, never benevolent. It was a disguise, mere pretense.”

Jollain exhales audibly.  
“Go easy on her, Vaz. I understand Tay’s doubts. It’s difficult when the ones you trust betray you. But…well, it’s true that this looks bad. I was never a fan of this prison to begin with. I mean, what god allows a place like this in his backyard?”

Her girlfriend doesn’t meet her gaze, merely keeps it trained on their road, but does swallow in a hesitant fashion.  
“I…don’t know.”

“Also, if Vivec is the one who controls this rock, keeps it from falling or whatever, then does he know we’re here walking on it?”

The other women in her company are brought to silence for a couple of uneasy seconds, acknowledging that they hadn’t even considered this angle.  
“That is…a disconcerting point”, Vaziri confesses.

“Uh, well, he is a god”, Tay asserts cautiously. “Anything is possible.”

The only one who does not permit these qualms to eat at him is Maak-Veh, their leader. He drags them back to reality.  
“Stay focused. God or no, Vivec will not prevent our entry, or he would have struck already. We are here to rescue Mehra and that is what we will achieve. We do have to deal with the direct dilemmas that affect us – for example, it’s unlikely that we can sneak all the way inside without being noticed. We need a plan.”

“A Tong agent once infiltrated this lair to execute a writ”, the khajiit reveals. “He told me that simply rushing in is foolish, due to the regimented schedules and abundance of guards. There will be too many for us to fight in an open-ended battle. We have to employ a measure of guile.”

After tapping her cheek for a moment, Jollain flashes a small grin for them.  
“Hey, I have an idea.”

* * *

  
The outer layers of the moonlet’s interior, known as the Hall of Processing, proved Alvela right – there are fewer Ordinators stationed here, who patrol the carved and relatively barren stone corridors, lit by erected torched attached to the walls. The whole design here is very crude, with little concern for comfort or artistic vision. Stability, systematic progress and strictly calibrated lengths are far more integral.

In the first corridor near the backdoor, one Ordinator is lazily traversing this section, rubbing his eyes and regularly checks if any other guard has come around to help keep him entertained. He’s bored out of his mind, finding this assignment to be remarkably tedious. He really wishes he hadn’t asked for that promotion a few months back.  
However, the monotony ceases once he notices how a bosmer leaps out from nowhere and smiles sheepishly at him. A pretty cute woman, sure, but she doesn’t wear the uniform of an Ordinator.

“Oh, hah. Uh, hello there!”

The guard is nonplussed, staggered for a brief moment.  
“…who are you?”

“Seems like I got a lil’ lost. Think I was supposed to take a right back there. Uh, bye!”

As she spins around and retreats back into the corner she emerged from, the guard shouts and pursues her…and, sadly, rushes straight into the big hulking shape of an awaiting Tay. She socks him right in the mug and decks him immediately. Upon his instant unconscious state, Tay sighs.  
“This would be sacrilege in any other situation”, she laments.

Jollain smirks as she gazes at the man, pretty satisfied with the success of her plan.  
“Ah, I wouldn’t worry ‘bout that. If I’m sent by Azura, then isn’t this technically sanctioned by some type of deity?”

Tay glances incredulously at her girlfriend.  
“…somehow, I doubt this is what she had in mind.”

“Whatever. Just help me out.”

They strip him off his armor, though not the thinner clothes underneath and then gets Tay into this gear instead. With a bit of pulling and bending, they manage to strap all of it onto her, but the warrior still grimaces and squirms.  
“It’s…kind of tight. Chafes a little on my thighs and waist.”

Her complaints make Jollain grin, as the bosmer playfully pokes her stomach.  
“C’mon, you’ll be fine, cutie. Besides, it suits you. Very snazzy. Making every Ordinator look bad, to be honest. They can never live up to your standards.”

Tay rolls her eyes, but she can’t prevent the traces of a smile that she forms. She never gets enough of Jollain’s praise.  
“Anyway, I guess I’ll have to dump my gear here for now and buy new ones later.  
Oh, and I should um, ‘confiscate’ your weapons.”

It seems Maak had disappeared during the process of getting Tay prepped, but now that he returns, he not only hands his spear over, but also an Ordinator’s helmet.  
“Found this hanging in a corner. Should put it on, in case they get suspicious.”

She follows his proposal, takes all their equipment and then begins marching through the hallways towards the prison keep. Everything goes remarkably smooth until they approach the door to the prison, where one guard is just exiting. She is a little perplexed by the sight of the group and because her position blocks their passage, they’ll have to deal with her scrutiny.  
“Well, this is a big bundle, isn’t it? Are these all meant for the cells?”

Guile and persuasion aren’t really tools that usually rest in Tay’s repertoire, but she has to conjure every last trick that she has ever learned to exploit them now. She’s glad that the helmet at least masks her insecurity.  
“Uh, yes! I was ordered to escort them here on charges of…blasphemy and desecration of a shrine.”

“Huh. All three? That sounds quite drastic. Don’t you people have room for them down below? Fairly sure we have more cells that won’t be wasted on small crime.”

Tay tentatively clears her throat, stumbling a bit on her words.  
“Erm, well…I don’t deliver the orders, so…”

The other guard shakes her head and takes a few steps closer to survey the prisoners, not being impressed at all.  
“Seriously, they’re intended for the Ministry? I mean, we’ve had prisoners with fairly hollow charges before, but this is so redundant. Are you sure they got past processing? You know that if you fill up our cages with worthless trash, the Grand Inquisitor will punish us, right? I just don’t want this to get on my record when-“

This one apparently has a little too many brazen opinions that she has to declare. Perhaps an acute response is all she will recognize. Tay stomps the ground and pushes her face very close to the guard.  
“Listen, I don’t have time for your whining. Lord Sala himself issued this order and if you have any complaints, take them up with him. These three are followers of Mehrunes Dagon, who defiled a shrine to Saint Veloth. Maybe you and I have different views on heresy, but _I_ would call that a crime.”

The Ordinator is shocked by this fierce retort and her mouth lingers agape for a short while, before she abruptly retreats and steps aside.  
“O-oh! My…my apologies, sera. I didn’t mean to-…if Lord Sala believes-…uh, proceed!”

Tay straightens her pose, rolls her shoulders and dips her head in a very faint gesture.  
“A wise choice. Vivec’s blessings upon you.”

“Ahem. You too.”

As they finally step past the entrance of the prison, Jollain is closest behind her, donning an undeniably sly expression.  
“That…was beautiful”, she whispers. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Tay.”

She doesn’t see it, but her ears can catch Tay’s substantial sigh.  
“…my hands are shaking.”

Jollain giggles and sympathetically pats her back.  
“You did good. Damn good. Flash that attitude and we’ll make it. If you need me to put on a show, I can play the Dagon girl. Never tried to, but it sounds like fun.”

The keep’s interior awaits and the deeper they stride into the floating rock, the thicker the growth of guards. Thankfully, due the fact that they’ve entered this section flawlessly, no one stands in their path. Well, not until the last hurdle.  
It’s when they enter the last corridor, where the holding cells are organized, that they hit another snag. There are a whole heap of doors and unmarked cages, which doesn’t tell them where to go and which one holds Mehra. If they open the wrong one, the inmate within may compromise their state.

Their search for keys and destination is hindered by the main guard stationed in these passages tonight, another dunmer.  
“What’s this? Prisoners?”

Tay swirls towards him and steps in between herself and her quarry.  
“Correct. Lord Sala gave the command to imprison these daedra worshippers in one of the cells.”

The suspense in the area increases tenfold as he stares at her skeptically.  
“Eh, no, that can’t be accurate. All of the cells in this quarter are full. Do you have the incarceration ordinance?”

Ah, they should’ve predicted this issue. Any prospects of emulating Tay’s previous display completely evaporate.  
“The, uh…”

“That you receive from the Hall of Processing, which you have to access first, before relocating prisoners to appropriate rooms? You _did_ go through processing, right?”

“Oh…right, of course. Heh, sorry. I-I’m a little new here. I’ll…go back out.”

The guardsman furrows his brow and now inspects the whole quartet with further distrust. As she attempts to depart, he reaches out.  
“Hey, you, stop! Who are you? I don’t recall anything regarding new transfers.”

Tay wavers here, her ingrained social anxiety taking over and no words exit her mouth. She’s stumped, utterly puzzled about what to say.  
But, as the guard puts his hand on a weapon, Vaziri decides to act first. She lifts her hand, summons a quick spell and unleashes a bolt of fire at the guard, flinging him back against the wall, instantly knocking him unconscious.

All of the trio whirls towards her.  
“Vaziri!”, Tay blurts.

“Welp. That’s one solution. Kinda.”, Jollain remarks.

Vaziri directs a sharp stare right at Tay.  
“He would have arrested you. I could tell. It is in the eyes and the twitching of the fingers.”

Is she correct or merely making an excuse? They can’t tell, as Vaziri is infamous for being rather…volatile. Either way, Maak sighs and shakes his head.  
“Too late to ask questions. Jollain, check his body for keys.”

“On it”, the bosmer replies.

Unfortunately, Vaziri’s action was not what one would deem as stealthy. As Jollain hurries to ransack the unconscious or potentially dead guard, the rest can hear heavy boots closing in. Maak frowns towards the door.  
“I suppose this charade is over. Let’s strike first, before they have a chance to react. Tayerise, my spear.”

The dunmer unsheathes the weapons she ‘impounded’ earlier and hands them over. Seeing as how the assassin doesn’t have need of physical contraptions, she starts their defensive on her own by freezing the floor next to the door with an ice spell, making it slippery and more arduous to enter. This proves fruitful as the two first Ordinators who bash the entrance open are completely caught off-guard and trips on the ice, allowing Maak and Tay to eliminate them with two swift jabs.

The fight which ensues quickly grows more chaotic and while the trio holds off a few, particularly by exploiting Vaziri’s aptitude for destruction, their success soon wanes.  
One large and impressive dunmer wielding a thick shield and a steel sword not only reacts with seasoned reflexes, but also casts a magical ward onto his shield which blocks the khajiit’s spell. This is something she rarely experiences, to the point where she’s temporarily baffled.

“And what is this?”, he asks loudly and heatedly. “Four heretics who believe they can break into my god’s holy penitentiary?! Sacrilege!”

Tay surveys his slick shoulder-length black hair, the neatly cut goatee, dark grey skin and crisply polished armor.  
“…shit. Must be the Grand Inquisitor.”

Before Vaziri can recast another incantation, the Inquisitor himself summons his own counterattack much more briskly. A holy blast infused with Vivec’s gifts soars through the air towards her. She widens her eyes and tries to avoid, but the subsequent shockwave from the explosion singes her body and slams her into one of the cell doors, temporarily putting her out of the fight.

He seems exceedingly content with his efforts and soon prepares a second projectile to finish the job, but is interrupted. Maak charges into the dunmer in order to assist his ally, spear held high. He thrusts it towards the Inquisitor, who has no choice but to focus on blocking.  
The dunmer glowers at his new foe and grits his teeth.  
“One of the beastfolk believes it can invade our sanctum, does it? I will make you regret this transgression.”

Maak’s own glare is on par with the tenacity and potency, while he spins the spear in his grasp.  
“Call it for what it is, you charlatan – an unjust prison. And I am no beast, dryskin.”

The Inquisitor holds up his shield to deflect the next strike and follows this up by pushing Maak away. This maneuver lowers the argonian’s defenses for a moment, which he attempts to abuse to cut Maak down, but he underestimates the Spymaster’s dexterity, who dodges twice, twirls the spear around and wields it like a bat to hit the dunmer hard in the abdomen with the blunt side. Despite his armor, the Inquisitor budges and staggers, giving Maak an opportunity. The argonian rapidly swaps angle, attempts to smack the Inquisitor over his unprotected head, but the shield is there to protect him once more, at the very last second.

“I will admit, you have skill, lizard”, he spouts while panting, “but that won’t save you from my wrath.”

The Inquisitor goes on the offensive, ramming Maak with his whole body and thwarts further assaults by keeping him at bay. The argonian retreats as to not expose any severe weaknesses, and the duel advances to the next stage.  
A series of blocks and slashes are exchanged back and forth, and while Maak’s speed had overwhelmed him at first, the Inquisitor is now adapting at a remarkable and distressing pace. The guard leader acknowledges that he’s tackling someone who values agility and precision over sheer strength and endurance. Apparently, he has enough experience in how to subvert such a menace.

This is done first and foremost by erecting a bulwark of defensive maneuvers. He doesn’t need to adjust to any displays of power, just construct a bastion that can bear the hardships and search for a breach. As soon as he discovers it, he counterattacks.  
Maak is not his equal in physical prowess and though he manages to block a couple of slashes, the Inquisitor is incredibly vehement and talented. Once he gets close, he can do devastating damage, a brute force that the Spymaster’s spear can’t endure for long. Not wanting his weapon to break, Maak transitions into an evasive tactic, but it’s a tad too late. He survives, but the sword digs into his cheek, cutting open a large gash. Blood stains the ground and Maak grits his teeth as he retreats, feeling how his flesh nigh ignites.

In the back, Jollain has been trying to access some of the cells, but none of them have what she needs. Sure, she could just open all of them, but putting random criminals – whomever they are – loose among the disarray they’ve already devised seems quite unwise. It’s at this point she remembers Alvela’s words.  
“Shit – far right, wasn’t it? Fuck.”

Jollain veers and begins to dart in that direction, but halts when she notes how Maak is in a pinch. Tay is busy staving off a duo of regular Ordinators, while Vaziri is trying to heal her wounds. Well, guess it’s up to her to finally get involved.  
She sweeps the floor for anything of value and spots two fallen guards. One of them has a shield. She rushes to it, picks it up in passing with one hand, while she loads a spell in the other. A bolt of lightning leaves her grasp, prompting the Inquisitor to block, which opens the opportunity she was looking for.

“Maak!”, she yells.

She tosses the shield and he grabs it in midair, flips it around and finds an adequate grip. He’s ambivalent to begin with, as he seldom utilizes a shield and spear combo. That said, isn’t increased protection exactly what he requires here? Time to prove his mastery. He nods his thanks to his student and gets into a new stance, with the shield held in front and the spear above it, ready to prod.  
“Let us recommence, Inquisitor.”

The dunmer analyzes his opposition’s alteration and scoffs.  
“Hmph. You think an added shield will boost your tune, lizard?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Maak resumes their duel by lashing at the shield, which the Inquisitor averts, but the argonian can easily deflect any attacks received in kind. He hardly ever wields this type of tool, so he’s a bit rusty, but he manages to acclimatize, like pursuing the river’s flow.  
Due to this change of pace, the difference they have to accommodate now is the length of their weapons, where Maak is granted an advantage, permitting him to stand at a distance. It doesn’t cover all situations, of course, but it is undoubtedly a manner for him with which to test the Inquisitor, while warding off the sword strikes.

The Spymaster’s solution is one that is thoroughly displeasing to the Inquisitor, something he is not afraid to voice.  
“I tire of your cowardly ways, lizard! If you think to wear me down, you don’t stand a chance.”

He musters his courage and strength to charge Maak, but the argonian remains faster than him, effortlessly avoiding these measures.  
The battle comes to a standstill which neither side can sanction for long. The slashing sword and the thrusting spear are both met with an impenetrable shield, and even using these fortifying objects to bash leads nowhere, for they cannot bypass each other.

To facilitate the Inquisitor’s downfall, Maak will have to employ a degree of cunning and he believes he has just the trick.  
Gradually, he drives their battle closer to the wall, backing into it, which the Inquisitor is eager to chase, as his desire to annihilate this ‘blasphemous beast’ is profound. Once he reaches the appropriate location, Maak switches gear and runs into the Inquisitor with the shield first, a move which the dunmer readily foils.

However, if he had thought this was it, he’s sorely mistaken. Counting on the Inquisitor’s strength, Maak uses the dunmer as a pillar of support to lift his own feet to the wall, briefly sprints against it and then vaults over him, virtually landing behind his enemy.  
The Inquisitor widens his eyes and as Maak is better prepared, an attack is imminent. The dunmer is just barely too slow and groans in agony as the spear pierces the more exposed backside of the armor. He sustains an injury, though not devastating.

Being somewhat weakened, the Inquisitor’s countermeasure is slow and sluggish, one that Maak can handily avoid as he retracts his weapon. With the argonian now having the upper hand, the jailor realizes that he can’t persist with the same method for long.  
He discards his sword, and in his hand, he gathers the gifts which his faith grants to him.  
“So be it! I shall ensure your punishment is uncompromising! For trespassing upon hallowed ground, you shall be plunged into the castigating fires of Vivec’s rage!”

Before the spell he can be even be launched, Maak performs something unexpected – he adjusts his hold on the shield and then hurls it right into his foe. The Inquisitor is so unprepared that it hits him straight in the face, startling and unbalancing him.  
While his magic goes awry and his eyes blurry, Maak darts, imbued with all his might and velocity, disregarding all ideas of defense and just lunges.

The spear doesn’t go directly for the chest, but the weaker flank on the left, which can’t sustain a full on stab at its center, and the spear strikes true, piercing his torso. The Inquisitor gasps sharply and stumbles into the wall with Maak’s weapon held inside his body. The Spymaster glares at him and leans close enough to speak quietly, but still with an unmistakable tang.  
“When saxhleel die, we return to the Hist from where we belong. I wonder if your ‘living gods’ will grant you similar shelter from the Void.”

He mercilessly rips his spear out of the dunmer, who drops to the floor in a growing pool of his own blood and promptly stops moving.  
As Maak takes a step back in order to catch his breath, another Ordinator infiltrates their lair and tries to take advantage of the occasion. Luckily, Tay is still up and alive and buries her axe in their back. Shortly after, she lifts her foot and kicks the door shut again.

“You okay?”, she asks her friend. Based on the blood running down from her arm and neck, she’s probably not unscathed either.

“I’ve been better, but I’ll make it. That is, if you have found Mehra.”

“Jollain is on it…I hope.”

Almost simultaneously, at the far right side of the prison, Jollain hurries up to the cell door, desperately looks for the right key, until she decides to just test all of them. After some cursing, it finally swings open and to her relief, an initially alarmed Mehra Milo stands in the center, adorned in her robes. She exhales upon recognizing her ally.  
“Sera Jollain! Am I ever glad to see you. I wasn’t sure you would come. Though, by the sound of things, it doesn’t seem as if your incursion was unnoticed.”

“Nope!”, the bosmer responds tersely. “We’ve kinda uh, stirred beehive.”

Mehra arches her brow confusedly.  
“…beehive?”

“…never mind. You got a way out?”

“Oh, yes, of course, but we will have to act quickly. There’s a portal in one of the adjacent quarters of the Grand Inquisitor’s office, which leads into the High Fane.”

Jollain nods at first, just thinking that it sounds terrific…but she comes to an abrupt halt at the end.  
“Whoa, hang on. Back to the temple? Isn’t that, erm, bad?”

“Well, yes and no. There are fewer active guards there at this time and we can use the backdoor to escape into the sewers. I have a contact waiting outside St Delyn’s canton, who will take us to Holamayan and the Dissident Priests.“

“Hola…what? Wait, never mind! Save the explanations for later, cuz we ain’t got the time. Just lead the way.”

Taking advantage of the decreased active guards in this area, as they are still trying to pour out of the internal barracks, the team fights their way out towards the portal room with keys taken from the Grand Inquisitor. In the center, upon a platform, they see a peculiar sight – a glowing doorway, a tear in the fabric of reality, which leads into another facility. The group hesitates, questioning the safety of this path, but as they hear the heightened number of Ordinators behind them, there is no other option. They leap inside.

The process is rapid and seamless, allowing them to end up in an entirely disparate kind of area, the more ornate and decorated hallways of the High Fane, albeit a room that is presumably at the lower levels.  
“We have to deactivate the portal somehow!”, Mehra infers. “I believe there may be a set of controls nearby, where-“

And this is as far as she gets, until it shatters. All of them turn to Vaziri, who just blasted it with a surge of lightning.  
“There. Now no one will be using it.”

Mehra is shocked, but only for a second.  
“That…is also a solution. Come, we must hurry and leave Vivec.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah, no scrolls here. I could've gone with that, but I'm not too fond of them. I didn't think it'd be too farfetched to have a portal between the temple and their prison for special transfers and guard shifts. A little easier than wasting levitation potions_


	29. Dissident veracity

A calm in the recent storm has been obtained, a pause in the raging river that almost appeared to be on the brink of swallowing them whole. They narrowly avoided total disaster, but it’s hard to say if they’re fully in the clear.  
The hours after fleeing from the Ministry of Truth was some of the most hectic and nerve-wracking that Jollain and the team overall has ever gone through.

The battle itself was fierce and unforgiving, but they were all so caught up in the adrenaline and the general chaos of it all, that nerves never became a prominent factor. And perhaps that was fortuitous.  
It wasn’t until they escaped into the wilds – or the sewers, rather – and met up with a person that had promised to take them out of Vivec by boat, that they realized just how extensive this mess had become.

At the time, the whole city seemed to be in disarray. It was still nighttime upon exiting the High Fane and a small storm was ongoing, thrashing and smashing against their shores. This weather had apparently not hindered the Ordinators from commencing their search, an aspect which the team became aware of as they attempted to snatch Amnet from the stables outside, before they could escape.

One thing is very clear for them now, at least – Vivec City is not safe to return to for a while, perhaps never. The Ordinators will undoubtedly hunt every single member of the team, if they so much as come near the vicinity of the holy settlement. It’s not a great loss on its own, as none of them really spent much time there to begin with, but it might constrain future efforts.

After they departed, they had first been taken to Ebonheart, an imperial fort just outside of Vivec, in order to acquire a few extra resources and supplies. Then it was off to the east, _far_ to the east. They nearly believed that their transport would sail them all the way to Sadrith Mora, but the journey would come to an end a few hours prior to reaching this destination, by a fairly remote area.

Holamayan is a relatively small monastery, nestled among clusters of cliffs and boulders upon a tiny isle, several miles south of Sadrith Mora. In fact, it has been cleverly crafted in such a fashion that it practically imitates the shape of the stone pillars that it was erected in the center of, making it impressively well-hidden.  
However, the most startling fact to the team, upon approach, was the lack of a visible entrance to the place. At least none existed on their arrival, which was late in the morning.

Fortunately, Mehra had explained that this was expected, for the monastery does not open at all until dawn and dusk – the sacred hours of the daedric prince Azura. At any other section of the day, it is sealed and protected by a magical shield, which has taken the shape and beige shade of the facility. The team was amazed and intrigued by this revelation, but as there wasn’t anything they could do, they decided to put up a camp and get some rest together with Mehra. They all needed it after their exploits in Vivec.

The few hours between awakening and the awaited time, the group spoke with Mehra and most of all, unveiled the truth of what they were looking for, as well as the fact that Jollain may very well be the Nerevarine. The priestess was both excited and fascinated, but not skeptical. She did think that their investigation of the prophecy a few months ago was remarkably peculiar. Now, it all made sense.

Once dusk arrived, the barrier retracted, and the doorway was revealed, allowing them to step inside and descend into the depths of the sanctuary. Past the initial door, there wasn’t simply an entrance hall, but a set of stairs they had to traverse. It appears that the interior of this facility is partially built underground.

Just like one may have predicted, Holamayan is a humble and somewhat austere location. The initial room is fairly sizeable, with shrines dedicated to saints – one of them being Nerevar – but the rest of the building is modest and sparse. They have a room for storage, a tiny alchemy lab, a small library and then just one set of sleeping quarters, where pretty much the entire Dissidents rest together, having one bed each. Efficient, though it does not give much consideration for privacy.  
Upon brief introduction, it was also made clear to the team that these priests are not a great and fearsome resistance either. There are about a dozen of them, every single one being members of the Temple. Administrators, preachers and healers, not troops. Most are dunmer too, except for one nord.

After some initial confusion, an old man in red and green robes, calling himself Gilvas, greeted them and was immensely relieved to see that Mehra was alive and unscathed. He, like many of his colleagues, had feared the worst when news of her capture had found its way to the dissidents. The duo had disappeared for a while after this, as they had to confer regarding Mehra’s stay in the prison, news in Vivec and other matters which were of critical value to Gilvas.

In the meantime, Jollain’s team have had a chance to relax and find some places to sit and wait. They were invited as guests, due to the company they kept, but people have so far given them a wide berth, at least until Gilvas gives the all clear.  
This is why the team is currently sitting in the library on a couple of chairs around a small table. Vaziri is leaning back while she peruses an interesting tome, Tayerise is cuddling with Amnet and Jollain sits next to Maak-Veh, as the argonian is occupying himself with browsing a couple of old reports from Caius. Before they left the West Gash, they had visited his cabin outside Balmora, to drop off much of the info which the imperial had presented to the new Spymaster, but Maak still chose to bring a few documents with him, in order to be better updated about the situation in Morrowind overall.

During this process, Jollain notes how Maak occasionally lifts his hand and brushes his claws over the wound he received from the Grand Inquisitor on his cheek, a mark that is still healing. Even so, it’s very obvious that it will doubtlessly grow into an easily distinguishable scar.  
He doesn’t comment on it, but the gesture still makes Jollain smirk.  
“Don’t fuss, Maak, it’s not that bad. If you’re worried about visibility, I mean. In fact, looks pretty good on ya. It’ll be a very attractive scar. Bet lots of people will love it.”

The Spymaster furrows his brow and turns to view his student on the adjacent chair with an unimpressed gaze.  
“…yes, because _that_ was my top concern and not infections or notoriety”, he states, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jollain giggles.  
“Just sayin’. Trust me, as one with a facial scar, I can attest that the ladies love it. And others too, of course.”

Maak merely lowers his eyes into the contents of the scroll once more.  
“That is an interesting statement, seeing as how I have never noticed a swarm of women around you. Just the one.”

She opens her mouth to retort appropriately, but realizes that he has a point.  
“Yeah, well…uh…shut up! I don’t need anyone else than Tay.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, at least this means you’ll be able to find ‘the one’ someday.”

“…because I have a scar on my cheek?”

From the floor, where Tay is sitting, they hear the dunmer speaking up.  
“Her scar is attractive, but that’s not why I fell for her.”

“Tay, cutie, don’t contradict me in front of him!”, Jollain tells her.

Before this discussion can progress any further, the group hears footsteps from the outside and in the doorway, two people soon enter – it is Gilvas, accompanied by Mehra. The priest really is an old man and he looks the part too. Grey receded hair, pale grey heavily wrinkled skin, body somewhat bent due to the deterioration of time. He certainly seems more affected by it than Divayth Fyr, though it is unlikely that this man is equally ancient. At least his red eyes are attentive enough.

He offers the group a small and regretful smile as he walks inside. His voice is dry and slow, but relatively friendly.  
“Greetings once more, saviors. I must excuse myself for the tardiness and for leaving you in such a haze of uncertainty, but there were much Mehra and I had to review. Now, however, I am most keen on speaking with you. First off, I must extend our gratitude to you all for rescuing her. I don’t even wish to speculate what might have happened to her, had she languished in that cell.”

The team allows Maak to rise and approach him first, as he does technically hold the position as their commander. The argonian offers his hand, which Gilvas shakes.  
“Greetings, master Gilvas.”

“Gilvas Barelo.”

“Master Barelo. I am Maak-Veh. This is Jollain, Tayerise and Vaziri. We represent…important interests for the Empire here in Vvardenfell. I cannot reveal anything beyond those words.

“Ah, of course. Mehra indicated as much. You are welcome here, ser Maak-Veh, as is your group.”

Jollain folds her arms and takes her position next to the argonian.  
“You’re the leader here?”

The old man moves his hands behind his back and inclines his head.  
“Yes. De facto, at least, due to my experience. The Dissident Priests do not quite operate like the Temple in terms of hierarchy.”

“So, you are the resistance to the Temple’s new ways?”, asks Tay. “There certainly aren’t a lot of you.”

This questions makes Gilvas waver and he pensively contemplates his response for a second or two.  
“I wouldn’t classify us in specifically that fashion, as we are not - as you might have guessed - a violent rebellion. But…well, we do oppose the current doctrine of the Temple, yes.”

Tay’s expression quickly gets infused with troubling emotions.  
“Master Barelo, I consider myself one of the Tribunal’s faithful, but…well, as of late, certain events have made me question. I have already witnessed several sides that I wouldn’t typically associate with my faith, but that the Tribunal would go so far as to imprison one of their own is…”

Her sentence drifts off, as she’s unable to complete hear thoughts. It is unnecessary anyhow, for Gilvas nods, comprehending her predicament.  
“This scenario is quite dire, yes. I and many others have seen the contents of the Apographa, which rattled our beliefs.”

Jollain clears her throat and raises a finger.  
“The Apo…?”

“Apographa, the hidden writings of the Temple; concealed from the wider knowledge of the populace, to obscure the truth of the Tribunal. After defying our superiors, we brought many such texts here to Holamayan, so that we may preserve the reality which they will not tolerate.  
A fairly significant part of the Temple has the tendency to accept differences of opinion, even when it goes off the beaten path of Temple dogma, but other tiers have not been as…lenient.”

“Lemme guess – the Ordinators?”

Gilvas dips his head in acknowledgement.  
“An astute assumption, sera Jollain. The Ordinators are the primary obstacle, led by Berel Sala, who will not abide dissent. He asserts that only a unified front can defeat the Red Mountain and Dagoth Ur’s hordes, which will undoubtedly come for us. Due to fear or complacency, many people do not dare to confront him and therefore support his claims.  
However, I remain confident that this is not the end of all hope – the Dissident Priests still have a chance of achieving change. If we can prove that our agenda is more efficient at combating the menace of House Dagoth, many will flock to such promises.  
And to that end, I am now exceedingly intrigued to speak with you. Mehra here has relayed the story of you, sera Jollain, that you might in fact be none other than an individual from legend.”

Jollain inhales through her nose, gathers her courage and resolve, plants her hands on her hips and tries to push her doubts aside. A pat on the shoulder from Tay helps too.  
“Uh, yeah. So far, it seems I’m a pretty decent candidate for being the Nerevarine. Passed the first and second trials already.”

Gilvas nods slowly and narrows his eyes, running a few fingers over his lips in thought.  
“You passed the second trial – the Curse-of-Flesh? How?”

“A few weeks ago, I was infected with Corprus, but through a potion brewed by old Divayth Fyr, the nastier symptoms were thrown out, while I got to keep the ‘boons’, if we can even call ‘em that. He claimed that Corprus is not a traditional disease, but a divine blessing gone wrong. Gives immortality and immunity to disease, but also tears the victim’s mind and body apart.”

Gilvas and Mehra look at each other, and the old man’s expression seems to grow very excited.  
“Yes, of course! ‘Neither blight nor age can harm him’. And the Curse-of-Flesh! Amazing.” He shifts back to Jollain. “I never would’ve believed that a man like Lord Fyr could herald an event such as this.”

Jollain snorts amusedly.  
“Hey, you and me both. He’s a bit of a pompous dick, actually, but not as bad as other Telvanni.”

Mehra holds a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laughter, while Gilvas swiftly proceed to the next stage of the debate.  
“Well, I hear you have been searching for the Lost Prophecies.”

“Indeed”, Vaziri confirms. “I browsed your collections here, but could not see it.”

He shakes his head.  
“No, I had been utilizing our version of it, after Mehra sent us a message months ago now that it may be needed. I am more than willing to provide you with an annotated copy, which includes our best efforts at interpreting the contents.”

It is Mehra who lifts up what looks like a notebook.  
“We will grant it to you, but if you wish, I would be happy to convey the prophecy directly, so you may hear it from us.”

The group looks among themselves, and no one seems to be particularly against the idea. Jollain shrugs.  
“Don’t see why not, since we’ve come all this way. Would be a pretty big waste if we didn’t hear you out.”

The whole group, including Gilvas, turn to Mehra, as the priestess opens the book and scours the text. She then clears her throat and summons her best and most coherent voice.  
“From seventh sign of eleventh generation,  
Neither Hound nor Guar, nor Seed nor Harrow,  
But Dragon-Born and far-star-marked,  
Outlander Incarnate beneath Red Mountain,  
Blessed Guest counters seven curses,  
Star-blessed hand wields thrice-cursed blade,  
To reap the harvest of unmourned house.”

Just like the previous stories and prophecies, this one is cryptic and ambiguous. Perhaps even more so. The team has little to say to begin with, allowing Gilvas to offer some words.  
“We have more detailed notes in the copy itself, but the basics are conspicuous – the three first lines distinguish the fact that the Nerevarine will be of an ancient family, but not the Ashlander tribes. They shall be born under the foreign star of the Dragon, the mark of the Empire.  
The next two are not simply a formal epithet of the Nerevarine as an outlander, but an indication that, while they are not of the tribes, they shall be a welcomed guest, one who can enter these territories or at least the grounds of one tribe. This outlander shall eliminate the seven curses.  
The final two lines mark not just the Nerevarine’s connection to Azura, but also the ones to the unmourned house of Dagoth, presumably, and a weapon created by the dwemer craftslord Kagrenac.”

Jollain’s ears perk at the last word.  
“Whoa, hold on. Kagrenac? I recognize that name…”

Tay arches her brow.  
“Didn’t Mehra mention him during our first intel gathering?”

“Yeah, but I met a guy down in-…ugh, never mind. We’ll talk about it later.”

Mehra hands over the annotated copy, but also holds two more texts.  
“We are also giving you copies of two other critical writings”, the priestess admits. “One is The Seven Curses, which deals with another prophecy, that declares the Nerevarine’s destiny to rid Morrowind of Dagoth Ur’s array of devastations. It includes Corprus, but also the rise of the sleepers, ash monsters and more. In essence, it proclaims the truth that now is the time of the Nerevarine.”

Shortly after, Gilvas takes over the conversation.  
“The last and final document pertains to a set of devices we know as ‘Kagrenac’s Tools’.”

It is Jollain who’s given all of the books, but as she doesn’t know what to do with them, Maak packs them into his bag.  
“Kagrenac again”, Jollain notes. “What are these tools?”

The old man exhales, shuts his eyes and shakes his head, as sorrow and apprehension descends on him.  
“It is a long tale, delving into outright blasphemy and sacrilege by the core tenets of the Temple, but is nonetheless true. It regards the corrupt nature of the Tribunal’s divine powers. The document will expose all the details, but I can provide you with the basics.  
The story goes that once, long ago, dwemer miners extracted a great magical stone from the depths of the earth. Lord Kagrenac, High Priest and Magecrafter among the dwemer, determined that it was in fact the Heart of Lorkhan, known to some as the Missing God, the Trickster deity, the god of mortals, Lorkhaj, Shor, Shezaar and so on. It had been cast here in the divine past as punishment.  
Kagrenac, in all his hubris and folly, attempted to control the heart in order to assemble an entirely new god, who would serve the dwemer and improve their lives.”

Jollain listens, but her eyes drift elsewhere, becoming distant.  
“To achieve immortality.”

Gilvas is a bit intrigued by her insight and nods in a slightly curious manner.  
“Quite so. To this end, he forged three enchanted items known as Kagrenac’s Tools. They included – Wraithguard, a gauntlet used to protect the wearer from destruction when tapping the heart’s gifts; Sunder, a hammer with which to strike the heart, to procure the correct volume and quality of power; and Keening, a blade which would be utilized to flay and focus the power that flow from the heart.  
It is difficult to say what exactly transpired during the Battle of Red Mountain, other than the fact that the dwemer likely vanished once Kagrenac foolishly employed the tools on the heart, perhaps in desperation.”

The ears on the bosmer lower just a little, and she feels sorrow in her chest. At some point, she really has to go back and speak with Yagrum, make sure that he hears this tale too.  
“And the tools stuck around?”

“Indeed. Lord Nerevar and Lord Dagoth discovered them, but did not know what to do. You likely know the rest of the story, that Dagoth went mad and fought his comrades, Nerevar perished and such, but most of all, the Tribunal themselves applied the tools in a slow and conniving fashion, assuming immortality and divinity. However, no matter their decrees and proclamations - all of it derives from the Heart of Lorkhan, not physical and mental prowess.  
And the most tragic component of this story? The tools are cursed. Despite restraint and wisdom, even the Tribunal have become corrupted. After Dagoth Ur rose once more, their ties to the heart has weakened and that is why they hide. Their divinity is dispersing. This is why we strive to disclose the truth to our people.”

The quartet who listen has little to say at first. They’re brought to silence and contemplation. Tay looks overwhelmed. The gods that she has worshipped for most of her life - next to the Good Daedra, of course – may be no more than common thieves. It does not matter how benign their intentions or their actions have been, for this does not make them gods.  
“I…I don’t…”

Jollain aims a sympathetic look towards her girlfriend, capturing Tay’s hand and squeezes her fingers affectionately.  
Gilvas inhales once more, before he proceeds with the rest of his explanation.  
“Personally, I believe that the persecution of the Nerevarine and the associated cult, must end. Dagoth Ur is our enemy, the enemy of all Morrowind. To stop his intended goal of conquering our land, we must stand united. This cannot be achieved if we perpetuate this hunt against perceived ‘heretics’.  
Tell me, sera Jollain, is this what you desire as well? The defeat of Dagoth Ur?”

She’s a little stumped at first, not having expected a question like this to be aimed at her.  
“Uh…well, I mean, that’s kind of what the prophecy says, so…”

He shakes his head, dismissing this notion.  
“I do not care about the prophecy or the words of the past. Does the woman who stand before me now wish to see the end of Dagoth Ur and promote the safety of Morrowind?”

Jollain bites her lip, hesitating. She doesn’t know if anyone has really asked her this before, if it has even been considered. The prophecy states that she’s supposed to do this, right? What does her opinion matter? But if there is a choice involved…  
“Ur, his lackeys and his fucked up diseases threaten my friends, my home and the people I live with; the people I care for. Yeah, I wanna see him gone.”

Gilvas moderately bows his head.  
“That is all I need to know. It is difficult to predict how effective you will be, but Nerevar, even if incarnated, might be the single element which can unify Morrowind. If this is what you seek, the Dissident Priests shall pledge ourselves to your cause.”

“Whoa. Really?”

“Naturally. We want to protect Morrowind and its people as well, more than anything. For now, there is very little we can offer in practical means, but we shall do everything in our power to transform the Temple and open their hearts to the victory which you represent.”

Jollain runs his words through her head, scratches her neck and then snorts, before offering a hand.  
“Well, I don’t have any reason to decline, so uh…yeah, I accept.”

Gilvas’ smile returns, and he seems very pleased as their grasps meet.  
“Together, we shall deliver Vvardenfell from total annihilation.”

“Hmm”, Vaziri emits. “Perhaps it is time we return to the Urshilaku and Nibani Maesa. We should be able to deal with the third trial now.”

“Yup”, Jollain agrees. “Sounds like a plan.”

Before they can prepare anything, Mehra emits a light cough.  
“I understand you may wish to leave, but…I have a question. I’m curious about Caius. Is he alright?”

The team, or at least the three agents, all look each other. They leave the revelation to Maak.  
“I’m afraid that Caius has left Morrowind. He was recalled to the Imperial City. I was chosen as his successor.”

Mehra widens her eyes, looking both shocked and distraught.  
“…oh. But…why would he leave so abruptly? I had hoped he could help us, but…”  
She sighs and pinches her nose.  
“Very well. At least you and your associates are still here.”

“Heh, don’t worry”, says Jollain. “You’re not the only one who’s concerned.”

The priestess views the bosmer with interest, noticing no signs of deceit.  
“I see. Then I wonder even more than ever what’s truly going on over there. Caius has always been…evasive, but this is unusual, even for him. I suspect he has gotten involved with more perilous elements of imperial secrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This is a little spoiler, I guess, but I do plan to involve Caius in some manner during a future Oblivion fic I have in mind, if or when I decide to write that. Always felt he should've been part of that game, but Bethesda almost seemed to have forgotten about him_


	30. Clanfriend

The Ashlands beckon, through dust and rock and fiery revelation.  
After their clash in Vivec, Jollain’s team made the drastic decision to not approach any more settlements whatsoever, except for the occasional village that could offer them brief opportunities to replenish their supplies.  
The stay with the Dissident Priests, while enjoyable, was short-lived. The group knew they could not impose too heavily on their hospitality and also just realized that they were stalling. Destiny was calling, and they were reluctant to answer.

Their journey had to continue eventually and the destination for their next stop was clear – get back to the camp of the Urshilaku and prove that Jollain is in fact the Nerevarine. This goal is now more imperative than ever. If they fail, the sole available alternative may be to leave Morrowind entirely, for the Ordinators presumably want their blood at this point.

The bosmer still has to admit that she is fairly overwhelmed, like the events of this quest are transpiring too quickly for her to appropriately process at a reasonable pace. Despite the disorientation, she presses on, choosing to simply go along with whatever is thrusted before her.  
This isn’t even the first time that the world appears to rattle beneath her – when she first joined the Blades, she felt equally out of place, not knowing what in Oblivion she was doing. Confusion and going with the flow are practically par for the course in this bizarre reality.

In fact, can she claim, at any point, that she has ever been completely in command of her life since she arrived? There is constantly a stream of information and fresh intel that she never knows what to do with and everything is spiraling out of control at such a speed that she gets lost. But she doesn’t permit this fact to destroy her. No, she embraces the disorder and partial ignorance. She’s still alive, isn’t she? And that’s in spite of every danger in Tamriel trying to kill her. As long as she doesn’t lose focus of their ultimate goal, she should be fine. Probably.

And so, when they arrive in the Urshilaku camp once again, she isn’t perturbed by the distrust initially displayed, because it lasts only for a few moments, until they are recognized. Sul-Matuul himself soon exits his yurt to come greet them, joined by Zabamund.  
“You are back”, the Ashkhan states with a hint of surprise. “We didn’t know if we would ever see you again, outlanders.”

“Heh, yeah, for a while, we weren’t sure either”, Jollain confesses. “Had to tussle with death about a dozen times since we last met. Uh, we free to enter, or…?”

His eyes sweep the group, seeing no new faces among them.  
“Absolutely. Those who pass the test of our clan are permitted to stay as guests, as long as you make no demands.”

“Nah, no demands, just a request. We wanna see Nibani again. Erm, unless you have another trial for us.”

Sul-Matuul slowly shakes his head.  
“None at this time. Our Wise Woman is likely waiting for you anyhow. If you have to speak with her, that can be arranged.”

Before they leave this position, Zabamund approaches the dunmer in the team and bows his head respectfully.  
“Sera Tayerise, victor of our trial, I am glad to see that you are staying strong. I would’ve been disappointed if one who defeated me with such competence had fallen or withered already.”

She offers a polite smile in response.  
“Thank you for the concern, Gulakhan. I hope your prowess and ferocity serve you as well.  
Oh and um…we actually have a request for you, Ashkhan. We wonder if you might allow us to stay in the safety of your camp for a while. We are currently being hunted by the Temple Ordinators.”

The tribe’s leader arches an eyebrow curiously and crosses his arms.  
“By the false gods’ slobbering kagouti? Why?”

Tay clears her throat, giving Jollain an awkward glance to silently ask for approval. She receives it, naturally.  
“Well, uh…we might have…broken into the Ministry of Truth inside Vivec.”

“Hmm. I have heard of this term. The rock in the sky, suspended by the dual-skinned sorcerer, yes?”

“That’s correct.”

“Huh. It is said many of the Ordinators roam in there, capturing the people they don’t like, including some ashlanders.”

Tay inclines her head to confirm this notion.  
“It’s true, they do. In fact, there was a priestess – one of the Dissidents – who was trapped in there for questioning the Temple’s doctrine. We broke in to free her, so that she may help us reclaim some of the lost prophecies.”

This act undoubtedly makes not just him intrigued, but several in the tribe, who begin to whisper and mumble among themselves.  
“A brave act, one I would not have expected from outsiders, much less outlanders. Did you kill many of the false gods’ blind fools?”

“Enough to be deemed as criminals and traitors, yes. Maak-Veh here even slew the Grand Inquisitor, the custodian of the Ministry.”

This news convinces Sul-Matuul to temporarily step out of his strict and grim character, as he tilts his head back and actually laughs; a genuine and excited sound. Even Zabamund smiles. Then, he raises his arms and gazes at the members of his tribe.  
“Urshilaku! Our brave clanfriends here struck a great blow against the false gods’ murderous lackeys! Three cheers for them!”

Cheers and shouts erupt among the people, surprising the team a little. They knew that the ashlanders were never particularly keen on the Temple, but they hadn’t foreseen that the tribe would be this thrilled by such deaths. The animosity there must really be severe.  
“No gift or show of goodwill is necessary”, he continues. “I will gladly authorize your stay here. Any enemies of the false gods with such fervor are friends of the Urshilaku.”

The group is conflicted regarding how to properly reply here. Sure, they do fight against the Tribunal, but only to a point, to oppose the atrocities that their follower commit. They can, however, show gratitude.  
“Thanks, Ashkhan”, says Jollain. “We appreciate it. Think we’d like to speak with Nibani now.”

“Of course. She should be in her yurt. Proceed.”

On the way towards the yurt, several members of the tribe follow them, coming over to praise the whole group for their accomplishments and efforts, patting their shoulders and backs. Vaziri is amused by this, that their opinions would rotate so fiercely compared to their last visit, while Maak feels marginally uncomfortable to be in such a spotlight. The shadows are his domain, after all, but avoiding the attention is virtually impossible.

As they step into the correct abode, they find Nibani on the ground, seated on a blanket, with another and longer one already extended for them. She’s sitting with a bowl in her hands, whisking some type of loose and colorful liquid around.  
“Welcome back, outsiders”, she speaks in a fairly calm and almost expectant tone, though not one that they would deem to be ecstatic. They wouldn’t be surprised if she had already envisioned that their return would occur today.  
“And no, you do not have to explain what you did inside Vivec – the walls are thin, so I could hear every word. Please, be seated.”

The group glances among themselves, but as everyone had anticipated a similar greeting, they merely follow her request. Jollain is in the middle with Maak, with Tay next to her girlfriend and Vaziri remaining by Maak’s side. Amnet lies down with his head in Tay’s lap.  
“What’s that you’re preparing?”, Jollain inquiries.

“A paste we utilize to craft our clan’s tattoos. I am arranging a set for some of our new warriors. But since you are here, I will discard such distractions.”  
For now, she lays these tools off to the side and finally lifts her gaze to study them.  
“You have grown, each of you. Your aura and eyes radiate with new knowledge and experiences. Let us hope it is enough.  
I presume you have come to me with new information. There would be no other reason for your visit.”

Jollain nods, gesturing towards Maak, who fishes the texts out from his bag.  
“Yeah, we’ve received a bunch of writings from the Dissident Priests, that will probably change your view of the identity for the Nerevarine. We have a copy of the Lost Prophecies, as well as a book they called the Seven Curses. Both of ‘em include notes from the priests about the contents.”

Just like the Ashkhan, Nibani’s expression and tone have altered, as she displays engagement they haven’t experienced from her thus far.  
“I see. You have come further than I predicted.” She extends her hands. “If you would give me these texts, I shall study them extensively. However, I would also implore you to relay the entire sequence of events on your journey so far, and everything that the priests spoke to you of. In detail, please.”

Despite the moderately onerous task, the quartet obeys and cooperate in order to remember everything, closing the gaps which others have forgotten. Once they are done, the old woman sits on her blanket with a distant and intensely reflective look in her eyes.  
“It appears that your travels have been…hectic. But for now, I can give you no answers. I must have time to think on these things. Since you have been invited to stay with the tribe, spend some time with them. Go speak, hunt and train with our people. Learn what the Ashlands have to offer. Hear their stories and ruminate on your actions. Meanwhile, I shall read, consider and dream. I will call for you when my task is finished.”  


* * *

  
Her request is followed, and the team leave her yurt to instead involve themselves with the rest of the tribe, spending as much time with the Urshilaku as they possibly can. This wasn’t at all what they had anticipated to be doing out here, but the experience turns out to be far less harrowing than some of them may have assumed.

They get to interact and share knowledge with both older and younger members, both hear and tell stories, train and be trained, eat and provide food.  
All of them, at one point or another, experience a hunt or two, showcase the various tools and abilities they have at their disposal and learn what being ashlanders are like from the people here. The attitudes towards each member of the team gradually soften as well, as they become well-liked, accepted as true clanfriends.

Tay is undoubtedly the most excited to be among ashlanders once more, a life she has not been involved with since she was very young. These people are not the Ahemmusa and therefore their customs and beliefs differ, but many of the opinions and concepts resemble what she recalls of her childhood, which is nostalgic enough. Obviously, Amnet is not left outside of these activities. He has fun not only playing with the other guar – where he is actually far more mischievous than any of them – but also running around with the dunmer kids, who really seem to enjoy his company.

Vaziri, while initially a little nonplussed and disquiet, soon warms up when she revels her magical talents and some people actually ask her to display her capabilities. It isn’t long until she has fun sharing some tricks and techniques that the Urshilaku have never seen previously and her gifts even end up having practical use. They appreciate her ingenuity and skill, something that makes her quite happy.

Maak, like Vaziri and Jollain, had been disregarded as nothing but a beast upon their first visit, which definitely didn’t open his heart to them, but that changes this time around. He swiftly becomes viewed as a wise man, a mentor of sorts, as soon as he relays his story of fighting and killing the Grand Inquisitor in detail. Many are impressed by his scar and a lot of young warriors get carried away as they beg him to train them. He complies, at least for now.

Jollain has perhaps the most overwhelming time of all. Not only are the people all around the camp very keen on posing a bunch of questions and learning all about who she is, but they also wish to test her. Some offer requests, wanting to spar and challenge her. Not to the death, but to bestow trials upon themselves. She may become Nerevar reborn and they wish to feel and experience what fighting such a hero is like.

On top of this, another member of the tribe shows some fairly avid interest in conversing with and observing her – Sul-Matuul, the Ashkhan himself. He tries to investigate who she is, what she can do, scrutinizing her personality and perspectives. These unspoken tests and proddings often crop up without forewarning, but he never unveils his own beliefs. For now, they remain sealed.

When at least a week, perhaps more, has gone by, they are called before Nibani once more, as she has requested to speak with them all. None of them have seen her whatsoever during this entire time.  
“Thank you for coming”, she tells them as they sit down, “and for being patient. I have had to contemplate so very much in the past several days and nights; incidents and angles that have shaken the very core of our beliefs.”

The Wise Woman turns towards the bosmer, staring directly at her, examining her stance and being. Jollain manages to grow a little disconcerted and cough awkwardly, before Nibani opens her mouth again.  
“The ancestors and the stars have provided me with clear signs, of truths.” She throws a cursory glance at the books lying in a pile of other belongings. “The Lost Prophecies leave no doubt – I was mistaken. The Nerevarine will be an outlander. Blessed by Azura, it is you who will lift the Seven Curses crafted by Dagoth Ur, sera Jollain. You have already begun your journey and I am more than willing to guide the rest of your ascension. That you have passed the second trial is not a matter of contention.”

Jollain crosses her arms, inclines her head and sighs briefly.  
“Yeah, it was…not a fun time.”

“I can imagine. As we previously discussed, I had my assumptions that Corprus was the Curse-of-Flesh indicated in the prophecy and the fact that you not only overcame it, but also gained immortality is…nigh impossible and unbelievable. And yet, the stars have conveyed to me of its veracity. I cannot dispute the will and judgment of the gods.”  
She steers all of her attention to the bosmer.  
“It is explicit that you are on the path to becoming the Nerevarine, the true Incarnate, though it cannot be completely certain yet that you will succeed. I suspect that the third trial will be the real turning point. To achieve the later feat of uniting the tribes and houses, you must go to the Cavern of the Incarnate, to where Azura’s eye sees.”

The whole group had hoped to hear this, of course, but it is Vaziri who seems most fascinated, her tail drifting back and forth.  
“Does this mean that you will finally allow us to receive its location?”

“Yes, I would…if it was my secret to share.”

The group is surprised, blinking perplexedly.  
“…excuse me?”

Nibani looks at Jollain.  
“You have passed my test and I recognize your traversal of the trials, Jollain. You are now a candidate. However, it is Sul-Matuul, the guardian of our cult, who shall guide you to the Cavern.”

Both Jollain and Tay are confused and uncertain how to react, but Vaziri grows annoyed.  
“Hold a moment. Could you not have revealed this earlier? You deceived us, made us believe that you held this knowledge all along.”

“Did I? I remember saying that I can reveal nothing, which was the truth. I never had the path to begin with.”

Maak taps one of his jaw spikes.  
“Hmm. Since it’s such a significant secret, maybe it’s fair to guard it so vehemently. I suppose we shall seek out the Ashkhan then.”

Before they depart, Nibani reaches out for Jollain once more.  
“Sera Jollain, I wish to tell you that…well, I am glad you have come this far. Few have managed to be so persistent, to persevere with all the obstacles set before you. This is the time of the Nerevarine and you could be our guiding star.  
Defeating Dagoth Ur and the false gods are daunting tasks, I know, but I promise that the Urshilaku will protect and support you when the time comes.”

Jollain is on her feet now and she rests her hands on her hips, as she absorbs the words and thoughts of such an offer. It makes her smile.  
“Thanks, Nibani. Not just for this, but…for giving us a chance to stick around. I really like this tribe.  
It’s gonna be a wild ride to get to the end, but…if I succeed, I swear I’ll uphold the vows that Nerevar once gave you.”

“I know. That has always been your fate. But…I admit it is good to hear you speak these words too.”


	31. In the shadow of twilight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Content warning:** Just wanted to mention that this chapter has one gorier section. Not super descriptive, but still more than I usually do, so if you're not into that, beware._

_Jollain honestly didn’t know what she had envisioned. A little bit of carefree progress, perhaps, in this otherwise hard and miserable road that never seems to stop reveling in her agony._  
_When the team entered the yurt belonging to the Ashkhan, they did not even get close to the greeting that they had expected nor pursued. A hefty portion of their minds had assumed, or at the very least hoped, that Nibani’s word was law, particularly concerning matters of the trials. Sadly, they had ignored the power of an Ashkhan._

 _As they approached and extended their request, he merely shook his head._  
_“Nibani has spoken to me and her words ring of faith and prophecy. I respect her, and I shall do what she has said…but not before I have tested you.”_  
_The group were confused by the rejection. He would defy her decree, the words of the ancestors and gods?_  
_“She may be the Wise Woman, but I am the Ashkhan. She does not understand the ways of war.” With unyielding determination, he strode straight up to Jollain and chained their eyes together. “I demand a Warrior’s Trial, would-be Nerevarine. You and I shall go to Kogoruhn.”_

* * *

  
And so, the duo departed the safety of the Urshilaku camp no more than an hour later and travelled to the southeast, towards a location which Jollain had never before even heard mentioned.  
Sadly, no one else could come. It was the first demand he imposed and despite protests, there was no disputing it. None of them liked this stipulation, but they didn’t have a choice. Sul-Matuul was uncompromising. If they sought the Cavern, they would follow his rules.

A night or two passes, much of it spent in silence. Jollain isn’t one for lengthy treks to begin with and the situation merely worsens when she has no one to share her inner turmoil with. Then again, perhaps that’s part of his test too, to isolate and strain. If it is, he’s nailing it.  
Finally, at some unknown hour, the duo arrives next to the ruins of Kogoruhn, as he called it, which happens to be an ancient stronghold of House Dagoth.

‘A sordid place’, that’s how he had described it, prior to reaching their destination. Jollain has to admit that it’s a succinct label. Upon approach, neither the sky nor the air provide them with any pleasantries. A minor ash storm sweeps around them and the heavens are taxed with dark clouds and distant lightning, with a thunder in tow that is barely audible due to the howling and unyielding wind.

At a glance, Jollain wouldn’t classify it as a fort, but the key was apparently in the interior design. The ‘stronghold’ has a huge and robust foundation, at least a few meters tall with a set of stairs to the main platform. A fairly flat and rigid building has been erected in the center with just one ostensible entrance. Behind it is a few smaller and rounder constructions, each with one door. No other walls or towers or anything. However, the Ashkhan had revealed that there are tunnels underneath, extending into a deep network below.

The two stop a few meters away, behind some half-withered giant mushrooms, having the entire facility on display, and Jollain notes the overflowing piles of ashes across the walls. If given even more centuries, will it completely buried?  
“I see the Ashlands aren’t gonna give us a break. Shitty weather galore”, the bosmer comments casually. Well, as coolly as she can, anyhow. She still feels horribly stiff and tense.

The old Ashkhan’s gaze is trained on their target, a consistent light frown donned. He has equipped himself not just with heavy armor, but a durable steel greatsword and a green scarf, to shield his face and mouth from the storm.  
“It is not the Ashlands, but Kogoruhn’s influence. This weather originates from the broken and contaminated aura of this place. It is cursed. The sun never shines, for it is not welcome.”

“Terrific. I mean, who needs sunlight anyway, right?”, she says with poorly shrouded sarcasm.

“Here, we shall hunt”, he tells her.

This statement is a little perplexing to her, which is why the look she steers towards him is mildly bemused.  
“Uh, couldn’t we have done that closer to the camp?”

A glare is directed to her in return.  
“Not mere beasts, you fool – we shall slay the infected Corprus monsters, the subjugated servants of Dagoth Ur.”

Well, that’s not quite what she had in mind when she accepted the challenge. Then again, he provided her with very few specifics, so she couldn’t have predicted what to expect in the first place.  
“Uh, why?”

“It does not matter”, he states dismissively. “Obey or leave. If you wish me to lead you to the Cavern, you _will_ hunt.”

Again, no space for compromises, for secondary considerations. Choice is not a factor in this equation.  
She doesn’t feel good about this whatsoever, not the least due to the fact that she is still able to detect a connection between her and every other Corprus infected, just like she did in the Corprusarium. The one speck of comfort she has to cling to is that these ones are evidently further gone. The protection of Divayth Fyr does not exist here and therefore they have had to persist in a languishing reality.

“Fine”, she finally mutters. “I’ll hunt. But what are you gonna be doing in the meantime? Just watch me?”

The Ashkhan stares at her with nebulous intent for a couple of moments, before he shakes his head and lifts a hand to the hilt of his sword, unsheathing it.  
“I will join you. Side by side, we will prevail.”

That’s a relief, at least. She wouldn’t claim it sets her mind at ease, but wading through death all by herself is…depressing and inhibiting. She needs to know that she’s not alone.  
Soon, the two ascend the stairs to the courtyard, right into the clusters of corrupted stalkers and large bloated and pulsating carriers, who in turn attempt to claw and bite at their succulent and vigorous flesh. Thankfully, both of them are well-versed in combat and skillful fighters.

Jollain does her utmost to demonstrate her capabilities in front of the Ashkhan for the first time outside of any hunting sessions, but she also gets to witness Sul-Matuul’s seasoned handiwork. He may be older, way older than her, but he’s still fast and strong for his age. In fact, it wouldn’t be too farfetched to declare that he might be more proficient than Zabamund in combat. It’s interesting that he let his Gulakhan do battle during their initial encounter. A purposeful choice to test them or did he consider them beneath him?

After they down at least a dozen or more creatures on the outside of the stronghold and can neither see nor hear anyone else nearby – except the wailing wind and the light storm – Sul-Matuul shifts and solicits another act.  
“Pick a body and open its flesh. I want to see you rip out its heart.”

Jollain’s eyes promptly widens in shock.  
“What? Why in Oblivion would I wanna do that?!”

“A redundant question”, he states evenly. “You should know why.”

“Well, excuse me for being a lil’ fucking baffled, but I don’t get people asking me to dig for hearts in monsters on a daily basis!”

Another frown arises, and he plants the tip of his blade into the ash and soil below, placing his hands on the top of the hilt.  
“You claim to be the Nerevarine, that you passed the second trial, defeating curses and blights. Prove it. These souls were defiled by Dagoth Ur. Their touch and innards spread the disease at a moment’s notice. If you are immune, show me.”

She can’t prevent herself from grimacing, as the disgust overflows. The sources are plenty, but some might argue that she wouldn’t react similarly if the target had been an animal. Doesn’t ease her mental burdens, though.  
“You know this is a pretty fucking bizarre request, right?”

“It’s a call for evidence. If you hesitate, how can you speak the truth? The stars and dreams that Nibani parse are one thing, but I put my trust in more practical solutions.”

He truly is an obstinate and unrelenting figure. With a deep sigh and flourishing anxiety, Jollain veers to the corpses littering the ground. Who to choose? They all make her internally squirm. She could’ve been one of them, in a less fortuitous universe.  
Despite her misgivings, she flips one of her swords around, kneels down, digs the blade into the infected body and cuts it open, making a repulsed expression all the while. A squelching noise is emitted upon impact and a discolored, slimy liquid squirts out. The stench of decay invades her nose, but ten times worse than any normal kill, like it has been rotting for an eternity. She’s almost surprised that flies aren’t swarming over it, but then again, they probably wouldn’t survive out here; the disease would’ve devoured them.

Jollain has killed before, both animals and people and she has been hurt a few times – stabbed, cut, bitten, burned. She has felt blood on her skin and tasted flesh, but she has never, in her entire life, dug right into another person’s body, much less a creature like this.  
For now, she hampers the revulsion and shoves her whole hand into the bulging and wet interior of the infected and rips out chunks of gooey gore. She desperately tries to locate the heart, but how would she distinguish that part from any other within this mess? Doesn’t matter. He wants to see she can endure and that’s what he’ll get.

Finally, she grabs whatever guts and entrails she can acquire and holds them up, mixed with tainted blood.  
“Satisfied?”, she spits.

He has holstered his weapon by now and the look he gives her is unfazed. He shrugs.  
“It seems sufficient.”

She rolls her eyes at the lackluster response. She just tore open the body of a person and began ransacking their bowels and all he can produce is ‘sufficient’? Fine, if he wants more, she’ll oblige.  
Contesting her own reluctance, she commences the task of smearing some of the guts on her body, targeting her cheeks and arms first and foremost. Afterwards, she tosses it to the ground, lifts her arms and exposes her deeds. She fights the desire to retch.

“Is that enough?”

He now actually raises his arms with light apprehension.  
“Yes, yes, you don’t have to overreach. Your bravery is enough. You have, without a question, established your resistance.”

“Just don’t want any damn doubts. Your people are fucking impossible to please sometimes.”

“There is still a possibility you might turn, but I have met no one who would go this far to prove their immunity, other than the utterly deluded.”  
After she begins to wander back to him, he turns away and paces around his previous spot.  
“You have made many proclamations since first coming to our lands and gradually, they are being cemented.  
The Curse-of-Flesh cannot touch you – you have the tenacity of Nerevar.  
Others are ready to lay down their lives for you and the conversations between us have made it clear – you have the heart of Nerevar.”

He abruptly whirls towards her, aims a sharp gaze at her and draws his greatsword once more. This time, he points the tip in her direction.  
“But do you have his skill? To win a war, you must fight.  
The Great Ashkhan would never in all eternity fall to a lesser warrior. Best me, here in the lair of our enemies, and let me see your strength for myself, would-be Nerevarine.”

Suddenly, it dawns on her. The manner in which he pronounces his challenge and exudes such purpose, indicates that this must be his true test, the definition of a warrior’s trial. Curiously, this was the very same duel they were deprived upon their first meeting. He must have waited all this time for a second opportunity.  
“I accept”, she responds, more vehemently than she had anticipated.

Only two words and short ones at that, but they carry an abundance of connotations and purpose. Their bodies rise and straighten, their long hairs sway and flutter in the fierce push of the gales, while neither gaze on either side falters, staring directly into their equivalent on the opposite end. Red versus brown; greying brown versus copper.

it is the Ashkhan who makes the first move, though Jollain would say it’s a calculated one, not derived from impatience. He darts towards her, sword held high as he wishes to test how capable she is when faced with a head-on charge. It ascertains not merely her reflexes, but nerves.  
The overhead swing he employs contains plenty of power, but her speed trumps this strength, rapidly evading him.

He is skilled and likely experienced, exactly like their previous fight proved, which means no hasty solutions will prevail. He alters the trajectory of his blade, doling out a near instant follow-up strike. Luckily, her reflexes are true and tested, permitting her to parry this attempt with one of her blades. Another two swings succeed the previous, back to back, which she handles with immaculate finesse. She keeps pace with him on every turn.

The Ashkhan can certainly do more than simply bash her with his weapon though, which is a component he does not unveil until he knows her guard is down. With the heavy blows putting dents in her defenses, she now stands somewhat exposed, a weakness he can exploit.  
With his stance being far more stable than hers, he raises one of his feet and kicks her backwards, almost staggering her. A pained gasp is muffled, but she doesn’t have time to recuperate, as a swift sideways slash stalks her. Sul-Matuul hounds her every step.

Fortunately, the reflexes Jollain has honed for many months, well over a year, serves her yet again, enabling her to dodge the first swing by simply dropping to the ground, rolling away from the second and then rises to her knees to utilize both swords to block a third thrust. She is then forced to retreat, to avoid being trapped.  
This progress is beginning to vex her. She’s not satisfied with being pushed around, for that will avail her nothing. If she’s supposed to prove herself, she needs to seize the initiative and surpass him.

She proceeds with this plan and upon his next attack, she deflects it, allowing it to bypass her, but instead of erecting a new defensive measure, she lunges into him with her blade. It is his turn to evade, for at this range, he can’t block her. She’s close, very close at attaining a critical collision, but he retreats at the last second and manages to return his weapon into its proper location. She doesn’t pursue, for that will only end in folly. She needs to wait. She can outsmart this guy, she knows it.

The Ashkhan alters his heading, starting to circle her position, with his blade pointed down and away.  
“I will admit, you have skill. I am almost disappointed you did not fight Zabamund yourself.”

She arches a curious eyebrow.  
“Almost?”

“Yes. While I respect him, that fight was always meant to go down the way it did - your champion against mine. Our clash was never for their eyes. Fate dictated another route.  
Only you could face my blade, Jollain; here, in the eye of the ash storm.”

Just as abruptly as before, he lashes at her once more. No warning, no signals, like a predator hunting its prey. This time, he distributes a stabbing motion, that transforms into a slash upon missing. Jollain, ever the faster entity, taps additional dexterity and dances away from both assaults. Her actions are fairly graceful and truly a sight to behold, which is intriguing to Sul-Matuul. Some might misjudge her as not being capable of such display. She’s small, but not slim.

One thing she will give him credit for is his sincerity. He does not go easy on her during a single moment in this confrontation. Deadly weapons rest in their hands and he’s giving her everything he can muster, delivering blows that can end up being near fatal. He is trying to hurt her. Whether that is predicated on killing instinct or not isn’t a facet she can parse and perhaps it’s for the best. She at least wishes to maintain the hope that he doesn’t actually desire her death.

Not only is he strong and resourceful, but clever. His positioning is calculated, constantly ensuring that he stands with his back to the storm, creating a slight disadvantage for Jollain, as her vision is moderately impaired. He also exploits their environment, kicking ashes and rocks in her path. It’s aggravating and arduous to tackle, and she knows she can’t let this slide.  
Eventually, in a bid to deprive him of his tricks, she sprints to one of the nearby buildings, which they have yet to enter. At this range, it acts as a slight barrier against the dusty wind, even if it protects them both. Won’t snatch her the upper hand, but she can live with that.

If they had an audience, she knows that there would be one very critical question that they would ask – why isn’t she using her magic? The lightning could undoubtedly assist her, maybe even grant her a more expedited victory. She periodically considers this element and is on the verge of giving in to the temptation, but reins her aspirations in.

Technically, he never forbade magic, sure, but that bestows her with another dilemma – does that mean he’s oblivious of her skills, despite occasionally using them on hunts, or does he merely doubt her capabilities? Or is he perhaps a magic user too?  
No matter, she won’t let him goad her. If he’s not using magic, then she won’t either. She’s going to defeat him, fair and square, no matter the difficulty. She can’t allow contentions to her victory.

The two go through phases in this struggle, as they swap roles. It may begin with her blocking his high strikes and incessant traps, until the flow suddenly shifts, and she gains a chance to dish out jabs at his flanks and abdomen, which he largely manages to curtail.  
At one stage, his triumph is at hand. He achieves such dominance that he corners her, driving her back against the wall of a Kogoruhn building, which almost seems to usher the end. It’s a startling discovery for them both, and Sul-Matuul practically halts his last strike.

This notion is short-lived, persisting only until the second that Jollain conjures beneficial memories, recollections of Maak-Veh’s lessons. Size and speed are integral, no matter her foe’s attributes, but also to draw on the unexpected.  
She lets herself drop to the ground and then rolls out. Dirt flies everywhere, and his attacks harry her, attempting to reach, but are constantly one step behind. With an acrobatic maneuver, she flips herself back onto her feet a few meters away and twirls the blades in her grip.

With a renewed angle and possibility, she rushes at him and this time, she ducks beneath his strike, opening a breach in his defenses…but instead of taking the shot, she just nudges her elbow into his side and continues running past him. He is surprised, baffled why she would squander this golden opportunity. His expression discloses the fact that he likely wonders what’s on her mind. Is she not trying to win? Does she think this is a game?

Once he finally turns on his heel to peer after her, he notices how she’s no longer in his vicinity. Instead, she’s climbing up along the wall of the structure, with no more than two and a half to three meters in height, heaving herself up to its roof. It transpires impressively fast, but the actual action is nonsensical. What does she gain from being up there? He could simply step out of her range and she’d have to leap back down.

At this point, they’ve been brawling for several minutes and exerted a lot of energy, which means he’s breathing pretty heavily. His one comfort is that she appears to be exhibiting the same exhaustion, and yet she had enough stamina to get all the way up there. He might be underestimating her.

She eventually manages to place both feet on the roof, hilts in her hands and body turned to her foe. He observes her visage rising far above, and he has to hold up a hand as the wind has shifted to blow at him again. As Jollain towers before him, her hair swirling in the wind, lightning strikes in the background.  
He does not know if it’s a sign from the heavens, from the ancestors and the daedra, but in that very moment, in the light of erupting natural energy, he doesn’t see Jollain, but another figure, a fierce entity. At first, he wonders whether it’s a vision of Nerevar, but it can’t be. The resolute crimson eyes and shoulder length copper hair can’t be his. What does it mean?

The sight startles him, making him unprepared for Jollain’s assault. She flips down and falls right on top of him. He urgently raises his sword to block the aerial cut, but she doesn’t stop there. She harnesses the momentum and vaults over him, acrobatically landing on her knees behind him. During his moment of weakness and vulnerability, she pulls out her leg, spins and trips him over.

The Ashkhan widens his eyes as he falls, never having foreseen this outcome. He drops with his back first and almost loses his breath upon impact. This maneuver was probably the most cunning she has utilized so far, and he presumed it was pointless earlier.  
As he lies down and tries to recover, she hurriedly gets to her feet, jumps to straddle his waist and holds a blade at his throat. As his eyes open, he encounters a firm, practically fiery gaze, but bereft of hate. This was necessity, not anger.

With a heavy chest, slightly blurry eyes, shock still affecting his thoughts and awe floating through his mind, he drops his sword and holds up his hands.  
“I…I yield to you”, he utters in a raspy tone. “There is no more doubt, you have convinced me. You are the Nerevarine, our guiding star. I shall take you to the Cavern of the Incarnate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah, the in-game quest only asks for weepings, but I decided to go a bit further._   
> 


	32. Trail of a Hollow Moon

As if triggered by destiny’s fickle fixations, their arrival is heralded by the sound of cliff racers’ grating melody. This commotion may cause alarm at first, but it is no more than distant squawking and not a close encounter.  
It is late as the duo finally reaches the correct destination, at dusk, the hours of twilight. The sun is setting above the ashen land and a warm breeze sweeps over them.

Several days have past since the promise was made and most of them have simply merged into an unintelligible mesh for Jollain at this point. They’ve journeyed together over much of the Ashlands’ width, far to the east. Frankly, Jollain had not expected to linger here for such an extended period, but the end goal incentivizes her to keep struggling, urging her to proceed. Finally, her journey may see the advent of a new stage.

The exterior of the fabled Cavern of the Incarnate is, quite astoundingly, fairly unassuming – only one arched stone doorway, with faintly fading symbols of stars and crescents. A holy place like this had given Jollain visions of far more extravagance and flashy demonstrations, to announce its presence, befitting a daedric prince. Then again, perhaps that’s counter to the actual purpose. Only the worthy are allowed inside and anyone trivial must never glean its intent.

Jollain initially intends to walk all the way to the door, but Sul-Matuul halts a few meters away and crosses his arms, unintentionally curbing her progress.  
“The door opens only during the light of Azura’s star, during the goddess of Dusk and Dawn’s sacred hours. Their time is now.”

“Oh, okay. Then…let’s go, I guess?”

But he does not. Instead, he shakes his head.  
“I cannot follow you. Only the chosen are invited as guests in her lair. Its gifts are not for me. I will wait outside, whether you bring success or rejection.  
Good luck and do not falter. You are the Incarnate, Jollain. Always keep that in mind.”

How can she forget? Everyone keeps reminding her, as if she might have some kind of chronic amnesia.  
As she approaches the door and puts her hands to it, she’s pretty shocked by the sensation, the resistance it provides. It’s impossibly heavy and solid, not budging for a second. Thankfully, the notion is fleeting. As if acknowledging her presence, it soon submits to her touch, practically bowing before her and opens. From embodying the stability of a mountain, it is now as light as a sheet of paper.

Past the unremarkable entrance, Jollain can see almost nothing. Darkness and a long tunnel appear to await her inside, with no discernable end. She gives Sul-Matuul one last look, before she inhales, holds that breath and vanishes, submerging into the unknown.  
If she has any sort of remaining qualms, she has to leave those at the door, for once she’s fully inside the confines of the cave, it automatically shuts behind her, engulfing her in pitch blackness.

Jollain has never been particularly afraid of the night, of cruising the shadows and letting them embrace her in their dim attributes. She was born into this, the stars foretelling her shaded allegiance.  
But total darkness is different, carrying a separate tune. Where it rules, there is nothing else. One could even argue that shadows have no place in such a domain; shadows only exist _because of_ the light. They are not inimical, but contrasts.

Thankfully, she is provided some respite, as one small illumination manifests along the road into the depths. It is followed by another, and then another. As they mutate and expand, Jollain almost distinguishes their appearances as stars on the night sky, but this is only before they begin to twist and writhe until they take an actual shape – a person. A woman, to be precise.

Any relief Jollain might’ve gained soon falters, as she parses one very critical component – she can see right through this woman, as her entire body is transparent. It is a dunmer, with blue-grey skin, simple clothes and neat red hair. She looks gentle and friendly, offering a gracious smile to the guest, but Jollain is still a bit stunned by the fact that she’s facing a ghost. She has seen a lot of weird shit on her voyage so far, but it seems Vvardenfell constantly has more in store for her.

“Welcome, Incarnate, Moon-and-Star Reborn, Hortator, Nerevarine, Mourner of the Tribe Unmourned, Redeemer of the False Gods, to our cavern, yours and ours. You have come to the realm of Azura and the heart of Morrowind. This is where fates align.”

Jollain is somewhat bewildered. She doesn’t really understand. It’s clearly a ghost who’s speaking to her, not just due to the visage, but the faint echo in the voice, a fact that sends shivers down her spine. Then again, hasn’t she seen more bizarre things? This pales in comparison to the ash beasts, or the daedra.  
But the woman is not alone. Her materialization is the spark which ignites several more accumulations of stars, a whole line of spirits and trapped souls.

At least this ghost’s tone is smooth and sociable. It gives her enough courage to swallow the hesitation and continue.  
“Uh…who are you?”

“We are like you, but not. We are the failed, the broken, the flawed. We are those who paved the road to your ascension. We were not the ones, but we wait and hope.”

Finally, insight is procured, giving Jollain a sudden realization.  
“The False Incarnates”, she mumbles.

“That is a label crafted by the false gods, but not entirely mistaken. Others know us as the Failed Incarnates, for we stumbled before the end.  
If you would hear our tales, we shall open your heart to the stories of your predecessors, those of us who could not traverse every step.”

She doesn’t quite understand why, but her nerves slow down and allow her to compose herself when she realizes that she’s dealing with people who have suffered the same harrowing route that she’s currently struggling with. Kindred spirits, ones who share her burdens.  
“Okay, I’ll hear you out. Who’re you? Uh, the person in front of me, I mean.”

She politely bows her head, a hand at her chest.  
“I am Peakstar.”

Well, that’s unexpected. Jollain’s eyes shoot up and she lifts her hands.  
“Whoa, really? I’ve heard about you.”

“It does not surprise me. My journey ended last. So close, yet so far away.  
I survived the blight, which convinced the ashlanders that the time had come. Sadly, I was no warrior. I fell in hopeless battle with an ash vampire.  
Weep not for me, for I could not have exceled. I was unable to acclimatize to the ways of the Great Houses and Hortator was a title that eluded me, no matter how hard I struggled. You are different.  
When you rise, Incarnate, we shall be free. Our spirits will finally transcend this realm.”

More burdens, stacking responsibilities.  
Without inquiring further, Jollain moves on and makes her way to the next person in line. Here, she encounters a man in fine robes of alternating blue shades and a slim body. Behind him, she can see what appears to be a mummified and hunkered corpse. In fact, all of the ghosts seem to stand in front of one. Who brought them here? What was the purpose for this specific choice of pattern?  
“Greetings, Incarnate”, he says with a gentle tone that is almost on par with Peakstar.  
“I am Hort Ledd. I died 400 years ago, in the last days of chaos and turbulence of the Empire’s incursion into our lands. I was a thinker, a scholar, not a man of action. The stars marked my path, but I was no hero. Let us hope you fare better.”

He has no more words and she poses no questions, but pursues the length of the cave until the next guide. Here, she faces a hardy and somewhat outwardly stern woman, outfitted with some form of light leather gear.  
“Hail, Incarnate”, says her raspier voice. “I am Idrenie Nerothan, your forerunner, like the others. I lived in the late years of the Tribunal’s sole rule, when the Akaviri invaded our shores. I assisted to demoralize from the skulking shadows and aided our people to repel the encroaching outlanders. However, I knew nothing of the Nerevarine or Dagoth Ur until I took refuge with tribes of ashlanders. Instead of focusing on my predestined task, I saw the ruins of Kogoruhn as a chance to gain loot and riches. It was my downfall.”

Fourth is what appears to be a fairly old man, greying hair and heavily scarred, with a dark brown robe as his chosen attire. An unknown, but intricate pattern is designed at the center of it.  
“Well met, Incarnate. I am Erut-Dan, defender of Veloth’s lands. I saw Morrowind fall to the dogs of the Empire. I lived through the dismal humiliation of surrender. Engulfed in hatred, I swore vengeance, against the Empire and the Tribunal, for giving in to outlanders. With no way to change our fate, I fell to despair and veered to the Red Mountain. My last time in the realm of the living was spent hunting the beasts that roam such terrain.”

Second to last is a proud and stout woman, dressed in clothes that look akin to the robes of the Temple, but undoubtedly of an older era. Her voice is clearer than some of the rest, less obstructed by potential physical damage in life.  
“Salutations, Incarnate – Ane Teria, at your service. In comparison to my cohorts, I was one of the Tribunal’s faithful, a crusader. I contributed a substantial amount of writings into what would later be deemed as the Apographa, as the Three elected to censor and hide my truths. To my great shame and regret, I trusted the Tribunal without question…without consideration. It was not until the dusk years of my life that I finally gained faith in the possibility of the Nerevarine. By then, my time had passed.”

And so, Jollain arrives in front of the sixth and final Failed Incarnate. It is a man in gear of intermingled cloth and armor, carved into the familiar designs of Ashlander equipment. His face is tattooed and marked with symbols she has encountered during her travels.  
The man himself has short black hair and a long thick beard in the same color. There is a fire in his eyes and ferocity to his spirit.  
“Welcome, Incarnate”, he says in a strong and slightly booming voice. “I am Conoon Chodala. Before you stands the former Ashkhan of the Urshilaku, guardian of the Nerevarine cult and proud fighter. In all my hubris and perceived strength, I announced myself as the Nerevarine for all to see.  
As opposed to the rest of our gathered failures, I was a warrior, a warlord. I fought house mer, outlanders and the Akaviri invaders. I delved into the lairs of House Dagoth and gladly ripped their hearts out, to demonstrate my capability. With all my success, I saw only my own destiny, my immeasurable _glory”_ , he states, getting excited. But then, this disperses, replaced by regret. “…much to my folly. Both my tribe and my dear sister suffered. In the end, it demanded a hero to slay me, once and for all, cementing my shame.”

Each story, every word, all syllables surge into Jollain, piercing her mind and fuses with her soul, becoming one. As she has finally passed through the tunnel of the flawed, their spirits vanish, and she enters the main room.  
In here, her surroundings light up like the night sky. Her eyes widen with the revelation of the alter in the center, encircled by stone spires and stalagmites – it is a huge and grand statue of what she can only presume to be Azura, neatly carved in stone. Shoulder length hair, a crown of flowers around it, a gentle iris-less gaze, garbed in a sleeveless gown with a low neckline. Her hands are outstretched, offering, though empty. The symbols of the moon and star flank her.

At first, Jollain isn’t quite sure what she’s meant to do here. Should she perform some type of ritual or spell? There are no inscriptions, no instructions. She tries instead to watch and study her surroundings, to take everything in, hoping that a sign will present itself. Soon enough, a sensation dawns in her, as if her body is tipping her off that she’s not alone. Her eyes are drawn to the statue and that is when she hears it – a soft voice, but firm and undeniable in tone. Whether it’s in the cave or her head, she can’t distinguish.

“Welcome Incarnate, Nerevar reborn.  
Welcome outlander, dragonborn and far-star-marked.  
Welcome rising moon, hero of twilight.”

Jollain’s gaze go through several phases; shock, awe, comprehension and finally, remembrance.  
“Wait, those words…” Images flashes before her eyes, floating above a black lake, of sweet fruits and caring caresses.  
“You’re the lady with the fruit basket?”

A somewhat mirthful tone follows.  
“So you do remember.”

Unintentionally, Jollain takes a step back, mainly out of wonderment. She hadn’t expected to ever be in this situation, that so much would just…make sense.  
“I…I can’t believe it. Are you…are you really Azura? Like, the daedric prince?”

“Mortals have granted me many names, just as they have with you. Prince, the magic between Day and Night, the Mother of Rose, Queen of the Night Sky, prince of Dusk and Dawn, of prophecy and foresight, the shadow of the moon. In the end, my star guides your path, Jollain.”

Well, she has the pertinent amount of mystery and cryptic nonsense at least. Is that a comfort or additional complications?  
“Well, if it’s really you, maybe you can…I dunno, explain something to me. Don’t think I’ll ever get why you picked me, chose me as the reborn version of some weird ancient warlord. I’m not even _from_ Morrowind, nor a dunmer. Do you just enjoy making things more difficult or was there a reason?”

Azura’s response is marginally delayed and it’s unclear whether she does this on purpose, or merely reflects on the question. Making a daedric lord stumped - that would be something, wouldn’t it?  
“You underestimate not just Nirn’s progressing cycle, but yourself. Your ascension is half providence, half achievement. The latter is not yours alone, but the accumulated effort of those who came before you. Without the…indignation of your blood, there would be no incarnation. No Nerevarine.”

The words make her sigh, as she doesn’t quite follow the thought process. Maybe she wasn’t meant to.  
“Well…okay, I guess. Anyway, I’m here now and even if this feels…crazy and confusing as all Oblivion, I figure that you must’ve had something in mind.”

“My only intent is for time to uncover the next stage. The Third Trial has been attained and you have passed, Jollain. I have long observed you, long known your arrival would transpire on this very day. By proving yourself to my followers, you prevail.  
But now, the real journey begins, the dangers that lurk in the light, of twin-faced narratives. You must become the Hortator and the Nerevarine. You must stand before the False Gods and free the Heart from its prison. You must heal my people and restore Morrowind.  
I can do none of this for you, no one can, but the one whose heart is bereft of doubt and filled with the blessing of twilight will transcend. You hold this, Jollain, without misgivings. I have faith in you. Succeed and be legend.”

Do gods always speak in riddles and prophecies? Is that really a thing or is Azura unique? Jollain is getting a headache. A mug of sujamma would be a nice treat right now.  
“Ugh, alright. I mean, this whole idea is still bonkers to me, but if this is what I have to do in order to rid the world of that Dagoth Ur asshole, well…don’t suppose there’s a choice. People keep insisting that I can unite Morrowind, even if neither the Houses nor the Tribes wanna cooperate.”

“It is true, and they do not, but that is part of your trials. You must find a way, through fire and blood and wit. Only one of mortal blood can undo what mortal blood wrought.”

That is a hint that Jollain can process, at least. Without interference from Azura, Jollain recalls an old image of the Tribunal, the vision that Ur showed her. They were different then, as was Nerevar, in more ways than one. She wonders if any of them ever predicted they would arrive at this moment.  
“Yeah, I get it, but don’t misinterpret me. I won’t do this for you, for the ashlanders, not even for the dunmer. I’ll do this because it’s my home too, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lose it to some pompous jackass.”

Her words prompt an unforeseen reaction, as a chuckle erupts from Azura.  
“You carry the audacity of heroes before you. I admire such insolence.”

She doesn’t truly understand what this means, but it still fills her with a speck of ease, to know that she is not alone in all facets. She inhales deeply, before gathering her courage for one last request.  
“Before I go, I wanna ask you something. With a truthful answer, if you can. It’s…personal.”

“By all means. If it is within my power, I shall acquiesce.”

Jollain opens her mouth, filled with bravery and spunk, ready to finally get an answer. But this is somewhat hindered when she recognizes the ramifications. What if her fears are true? Does she really want to know this truth? Will it be too much for her? She starts to bite at her lip, hesitating. Perhaps it’s best not to…  
No. She has to at least know, to hear it directly from the source. She may never get another chance. Can she live with that regret for the rest of her endless life?

“Did I…ever have any parents? I mean, people that lived on Tamriel with the rest? Or am I just some fucking…experiment conceived by the daedra?”

Once more, Azura’s reply is tardy and the hall grows eerily silent, held back for all too many intense moments, that becomes nigh unbearable. For a couple of seconds, Jollain starts to wonder if the lady actually abandoned her, refusing to respond to such nonsense. Did she insult a daedric prince with her curiosity?  
Thankfully, the voice returns. Not only that, but it has softened, become mildly compassionate.

“You believe you are without lineage? I do not know where such sorrow is derived from, but it is incorrect. You come from loss, Jollain, but not from nothing. Come, moon-and-star, approach. Let me display a glimmer of truth.”

Jollain briefly falters, doubtful whether Azura is being serious or not. She disobeys her own apprehensions and comes closer, touching one of the giant hands. Suddenly, a quick surge of energy ripples through her and the cave begins to fade , shifting into another reality. The stone transforms and changes shape, being reconstructed into stars and darkness. It is like she’s standing on the lake where they first met, but without the queen to accompany her.

From behind, she detects footsteps advancing on her position, forcing her to turn and face them. It is the flickering image of another dunmer, but not like Azura. This one is filled with purpose and vigor.  
Jollain identifies what she presumes to be a woman, striding in a heavy plate armor laced with a long garnet red skirt and a hefty enchanted greatsword in her grasp. It is sheathed once the distance between them diminishes. Her skin is dark grey like Tayerise’s, her fierce eyes are a darker shade of crimson and a deep scar cuts over the right one. Most of all, Jollain notes a familiar trait – the shoulder length copper hair swaying in the wind.

The bosmer swallows inadvertently and surveys every segment of this vision. This woman, this fighter, is taller than her. She’s facing Jollain, but doesn’t look at her. The thief can’t determine why, but she’s…familiar somehow.  
“Who…who is that?”

While she may not be physically present, Azura’s voice echoes across the nothingness.  
“Your coming was not a coincidence, but foretold in the trail of a hollow moon.  
Like us, she carried many names – the Soulless One, Hero of Coldharbour, Meridia’s Champion, Liberator of Vvardenfell, Azura’s Faithful, Vestige.”

“I…I don’t recognize any of ‘em.”

“They originate from another era, another age of Tamriel’s existence. Her real identity was Vyraine, member of House Indoril.”

“…the house of Nerevar”, Jollain mumbles.

“Indeed. She once served the false gods and one in particular – Ayem.  
She was a hallowed Hand of Almalexia; her closest guards, most loyal believers and ardent defenders. For a time, Vyraine was ready to give her life for the so-called Mother of Morrowind. Eventually, she saw past the shrouds, the veneer of the goddess’ guise and cast it aside. She went her own way and so finally, bathed in the veil of twilight.  
Vyraine fought daedric lords, false Kings and Queens, cults and unimaginable horrors. She came to Vvardenfell and clashed with one of the Failed Incarnates. But principally, for the essence of Morrowind, she was your ancestor.”

Jollain catches herself gasping and her mouth is temporarily agape.  
“My…ancestor?”

“You are not without history, Jollain. You are and have always been of Tamriel, but one who carried my blessing since birth.”

This is unprecedented, utterly remarkable. Jollain has never known who she was, where she came from, anything about her heritage. She has a family, a real background, not simply mired in tomes and myths. She doesn’t want it to stop.  
“T…tell me more. Who was she really? Beyond all the titles, I mean.”

“A fierce sorcerer, a resolute battlemage, a believer in justice and later on, a devoted mother. She grew up in a time of terrible turmoil, in the interim of your mortal empires. She suffered many tormenting atrocities and conquered trials that would break most who live.”

To satisfy Jollain’s thriving curiosity, she shows images. She sees Vyraine fighting with the sword in her hand and magic in her grasp, cutting down monsters, unfathomable dangers and fearsome people. At one brief second, Jollain is sure that she can see a few people donning the banners of the Sixth House too, that die to Vyraine’s wrath. Nothing stands in her way and lives.

“She was the first Indoril to depart Morrowind for other lands in quite some time. She looked to the west and searched for new opportunities. When she grew tired of conflict and bloodshed, she settled down and created a family.”

Another faded depiction crops up, displaying the dunmer in her older years, with a quartet of children running around and playing in the distance. Next to her stands a taller woman with dark golden skin and red hair, one that Jollain can only assume is an altmer. The high elf wraps a loving arm around Vyraine and they embrace each other. For a time, the stern and unending flames of war are replaced with passion and safety.  
Jollain can’t deny the emotions that pop up and festers within her. She admires this woman, even though she sees none of this strength and confidence in herself. She was a hero, a true rebel. How could Jollain ever be her equal?

“She sounds…nice. Would’ve been fun to meet her.  
Oh, by the way, what was that I saw earlier? That magic…”

Azura’s voice rings of amusement once more.  
“You noticed that, did you? Yes. She was immensely magically adept and had one favorite element – lightning. Upon her death, she granted this gift to me, asking me to hold it for safekeeping and one day bestow it upon her descendants, when they most needed it.”

Now that the cave has returned to its normal state, Jollain shifts around and faces the statue.  
“Hold on a second. You…” She looks down into her hand and the sparks answer her call without hesitation. “…you gave me this?”

“We both did. A blessing to keep you safe. That was the first. But now, I shall grant you another.”

Suddenly, light emerges in the large stone hands and gradually changes, taking another shape. A gleaming object is presented in the center of the fingers – it is a ring of obsidian base with a silver moon and a golden star.  
Jollain walks into its vicinity and needs only one look to recognize it.  
“These symbols…”

“This is the Ring of Moon-and-Star, a possession of Nerevar’s from the distant past. It was his in life and only his, but now it is yours. Only you may wear it, for it will consume all others.  
Use it, Jollain. Wield it to unite the tribes, to rally the Great Houses. Bring Morrowind together and rescue this land from inevitable chaos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _More references to other games. Yeah, Vyraine is my Vestige from TESO. She's available on my character profile page too, which you might've already seen._   
>  _And now you know my secret reason for making Jollain a bosmer. I like the idea of there being direct blood ties between Jollain and the House of Indoril. Vyraine was one of the earliest characters I played in TESO and after making her back in 2014, I got the ideas for Jollain._   
>  _Jollain has several different types of ancestors, though. Vyraine's lover was an altmer (and transwoman), for example_


	33. Outlander Incarnate

Sunrise. In other lands, this wondrous and serene sight would have been accompanied by sounds of twittering birds, the crowing of a rooster, the morning growls of marsh alit or the chorus of the city’s scuttling commotion. The Ashlands, however, does not afford its denizens such luxuries, should one desire the opportunity. One shall have to be content with the brightness above, the sporadically clear sky, the distant howling of ash storms and the ominous grumbling of the Red Mountain.

These are the same concepts that Jollain and Sul-Matuul encounter, as they wander calmly into the confines of the Urshilaku camp, like two shadows above the hills. As a mildly dazzling effect, the sun’s rays actually greet them with tender caresses, followed by a fond breeze in its wake. It might just be the most benign demeanor that the Ashlands has ever presented for Jollain. Suddenly, it’s like she’s home.

At first, only a few members of the tribe notice their approach, but the closer the duo gets, the more eyes start to pay attention and a murmur spreads across their numbers, like a ripple in the waters of the Sea of Ghosts.  
Sul-Matuul’s expression is resolute, his scarf stirring in the wind around him, but some are also able to discern an unmistakable enthusiasm that is unusual to behold on this man. What could have prompted such an interesting notion?

“Urshilaku”, he calls out, “we have returned. I bid you to come and meet us. We have words of critical importance that your ears must perceive.”

One by one, the members of the tribe begin to drop or pause their activities and tasks, following their Ashkhan’s words without any qualms. From the tents that stand out, due to a distinctively separate design, Tayerise and Amnet dart out from an entrance, notes the sight of the bosmer in the distance and starts sprinting. In their trail, utilizing a slower pace, comes Maak-Veh and Vaziri. They’re definitely gladdened by the same vision, but not in a hurry.

Tay zips past a bunch of people along the road, ignoring each and every one, until she reaches her target. Her strong arms envelop the shorter woman, easily lifts her up, hugs her tightly and kisses her with a swell of rising passion and joy, which she hasn’t showcased in quite a while. While trying to reciprocate this motion, Jollain senses a surge of laughter emerging from her throat, though it is muffled by the kiss. Thankfully, she can still ardently return the affection. Both happiness and relief fill her, to such degrees that she has not felt in far too many weeks.

“You’ll never comprehend how much I’ve longed to see you”, Tay confesses in the midst of an intermission.

Jollain giggles and rests her arms along her lover’s shoulders. She nudges her nose playfully into Tay’s, knowing where the homely feeling now derives from.  
“Tsk. Not as much as I’ve missed you, cutie.”

“I have just…so many questions.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ll get to ‘em soon.”

While they share in a few further smooches and heartfelt caresses, their reverie is soon interrupted by the slightly impatient grunts and cries from another member of the group. The little guar wants attention, nudging his big nose up towards Jollain’s dangling legs, making her snicker. Gesturing to her girlfriend, she’s soon kneeling on the ground, patting and hugging Amnet, as he gets excited by her care.

“Hey there, lil’ buddy. Missed your short mommy, huh? Yeah, I bet you did. Such a good boy.”

In fact, he gets so eager that he eventually manages to bump into her, making her tumble with her back first to the soil. He seizes this opportunity to tower above her, inspiring laughter in the bosmer as his wet tongue licks her. Once it goes on for a little too long and they’re garnering attention from some of the crowd that has gathered, Tay kneels and calms her pet.  
“Alright, Amnet, go easy on her. Let’s give Jollain a bit of space, shall we?”

Jollain has to compose herself after that onslaught and as she rises to her feet, dusts herself off and faces forward, she converges with the twin gazes of her mentors, who scan her with keen interest.  
“It is a relief to see you return unscathed, Jollain”, the khajiit admits.

The bosmer flashes a tiny smirk, setting her hands down by her hips.  
“Doubted me, did ya?”

Vaziri only barely mirrors this emotion, with her healthy ear twitching amusedly.  
“Not for a second. I have stopped believing in miracles. You are beyond simple dangers now. Any trial you seek to conquer will bow before you.”

“Hey, c’mon. I’m not some legendary monster.”

“Hah. Some might disagree, my friend.”

Maak’s gaze, on the other hand, is much more contemplative, curiously searching and reviewing her appearance.  
“There is a harmony in your eyes”, he posits. “More so than when you left. Like a grown minnow traversing its intended stream.”

His proverb initially makes her chuckle, but it also hits her, just how insightful his wisdom can be.  
“Yeah. I feel like…like I have a purpose now. A foundation, kinda.”

He dips his head in recognition.  
“I don’t fully grasp this new clarity, but it’s all I need to hear. The sight of you sets us all at ease.”

When the whole Urshilaku community has finally been assembled, Sul-Matuul intervenes in their little get-together.  
“Jollain, can you step forth, please? I want my tribe to see you, without obstructions.”

Jollain inhales steadily, gets an approving nod from Tay, and then acquiesces.  
“Can do.”

The Ashkhan steps aside, faces his people and lifts his arm to gesture at the bosmer.  
“I present to you, our Great Ashkhan.”

Prior to arrival, Sul-Matuul had mentioned he would perform some type of ceremony, a new introduction that they haven’t felt the need to establish before. And yet even with this emotional groundwork, Jollain still doesn’t feel fully ready for all the eyes that soon feast upon her visage. Excited gasps, sharp intakes of breath, mumbling and curious chitchat arises among them, a pulse of expectation rushing through their combined fold.

Realizing what it is they crave, what they wish to see with their own eyes, Jollain uncovers the hand that she partially kept hidden beneath her jacket’s sleeve and raises it into the air.  
As the sun’s illumination catches it, reflecting a twinkling brilliance, Tay gasps, as does approximately every single dunmer in the vicinity – the Ring of Moon-and-Star bathes in the embrace of sunlight, like a sliver of the actual moon and emits a dazzling aura that will not be denied. No one here has ever seen anything like it.

The people obey their immediate instinct, one after another in quick succession, they kneel before her, before the sight of Azura’s gift, until the entire Urshilaku tribe is on the ground. The sole exceptions in this equation are her group, Nibani, and Sul-Matuul.  
The Ashkhan swaps position, moving so that stands in front of his people, facing her. A heightened breeze of environmental approval grazes them, a gust that seems to usher in the dawn of destiny.

Sul-Matuul bows his head for the short woman, in reverence and respect. The Wise Woman joins his side and replicates this image. To avoid potential insults or blunders, Jollain straightens her posture and clears her throat. She cares for the company of everyone here, in a certain fashion.  
That does not exclude the fact that she’s still nervous, but also mildly thrilled, giddy in a way. She has never experienced anything even close to this day.

And so, Sul-Matuul begins his recitation, a speech he never knew would be given in his lifetime.  
“Before my hearth and kin, before the People of the Wastes, I acknowledge you, Jollain of dragonblood born, as Nerevarine. I name you War Leader of the Urshilaku and Protector of the People of the Ash.”

His section ends, while Nibani’s commences.  
“In token of this, we wish to grant you a gift, which shall be a sign to all dunmer that you are the Nerevarine and that the Urshilaku shall follow you, in all things, even unto death, until the enemy is defeated or until your demise.”

Jollain absorb it all, the words, connotations and proverbs. She’s sort of beginning to wrap her head around the magnitude of what this means, what stage it is she has now passed into.  
“Hold up – gift? Uh, I don’t think-…  
Sul, you didn’t mention that before. We spent, what, days together? Weeks? Not a word.”

“I felt it was best to keep secret”, the Ashkhan admits, “until our homecoming, for this express ceremony, as it carries a lot of significance and weight to the tribe. It is a mark, an emblem, a…tattoo, carved into the skin of your face. It will not only signal a new beginning in your life, but make it undeniable who the citizens of Tamriel are facing. For many of us, it’s an essential symbol that we cannot grant to any other.”

An ambiguous statement and Jollain enacts a bit of ambivalence in its shadow.  
“Hmm. Well, I…I mean I respect you, I really do, and I think this sounds like a pretty awesome thing that I definitely don’t wanna deny, but...”  
She raises a hand, scratches the back of her neck.  
“It’s a lil’ awkward? Is it really okay for someone like me to accept this? I’m not a part of your clan, and I probably never will be. I know you view me as the Nerevarine now, but that don’t make me a true Urshilaku.”

“I beg to differ”, Sul-Matuul replies gently. “You will forever be the War Leader of the tribes in our eyes, from this day forward, and that still secures a position as one of us. That is what it means to be Nerevarine.”

“Technically”, Nibani interjects, “this is not a mark which represents our tribe, but instead, it depicts a more profound and appropriate concept – the moon and star.  
If you will allow me to, Jollain, I shall bestow you with the symbol which the wanderers of the Ash have bequeathed only once, onto Nerevar, so very long ago, as he fought the outlander invaders and dwemer at their side.”

“Nerevar’s…mark?”, she mumbles and triggers another ancient image in the chasms of her memory, a vision during her journey. She recalls the encounter with Nerevar, his torch, the crescent and star…  
“Huh. Hadn’t expected that. Will it be necessary?”

“To me, it absolutely is”, Sul-Matuul asserts. “It will erase any and all doubt in the people of who you claim to be. It is brazen, in a way, born of courage and strength. Aspects afforded a legend and hero like Nerevar.”

“There is of course a caveat in this endeavor”, Nibani relinquishes. “Calling it a ‘gift’ may be somewhat generous. More than this, it is a burden, a responsibility. It will demonstrate to the world who you are now and will act as a beacon which you shall bear for the remainder of your life, unless you find some way to strip yourself of its essence. No one shall ever mistake you again.  
This is not merely a critical development for your rise to prominence, but for the future clashes with your enemies, followers and believers in your deeds. Gods, mortals, fortunes and misfortunes – all of them shall witness you and cry challenge.”

As Nibani’s little speech has passed, Jollain gets some respite, to ponder her options, such as they are. She reflects upon her voyage, the adventures they’ve enjoyed, the hardships they’ve endured and the wonders that she has met up until this moment.  
She thinks of the people that have made impacts on her progress – of Divayth Fyr, the Tribunal, the Urshilaku, Azura, Vyraine, Dagoth Ur, Camonna Tong, Nibani, Sul-Matuul, Habasi, Caius, Asta, Areval, Vaziri, Maak-Veh, Amnet, Tayerise. _Tayerise_.  
She’s midway through fate’s venture, in the middle of the road. The goal is almost within sight.

Eventually, resolve cements in her gaze and she faces her guide with renewed determination, planting her hands once more at her hips.  
“Let’s make it happen.”  


* * *

  
Hours later, a somewhat agonizing time, Jollain emerges from the depth of Nibani’s yurt. She knows just how brave, just how filled with resolve and spunk she had been in the onset, before the daunting task’s ascension, which was to be completed. But, well…maybe she had accidentally activated a little bit of hubris in the process. She won’t ignore or even pretend that these hours haven’t been some of the most painful that she’s ever experienced. Outside of actually being stabbed and cut open, that is.  
She’s never received a tattoo before, never aspired to either, to be honest. She had no idea what she’d feel. But damn, it fucking hurts.

With half of her face still aching, being somewhat sore and moderately swollen, she nonetheless steps out into the light, with the sun of the afternoon now looking down upon them.  
Having perceived the diminished groans and exuded complaints, Tay, Maak, Vaziri and Amnet had anticipated this occurrence and therefore already wait outside. The khajiit and argonian endeavor to suppress their humor, but Tay, as always, shows nothing but elation.  
All of them bear witness to Jollain’s fresh makeover – the grey moon and black star that have been vertically imprinted on the right side of her face; the crescent flanking her eye and the star twinkling on the cheek below it.

“You look great, darling”, says Tay.

Jollain snorts with faded amusement and shakes her head.  
“Thanks for lying, cutie. I feel like shit, like I’ve been stung by a million fucking bees. Could really use some sujamma right about now.”

This inspires a giggle in Tay.  
“I’ll see what I can find. Think we have a bottle back in the tent.”

As Nibani materializes behind her, Jollain shifts in another direction, detecting the Wise Woman’s hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t quite noticed it until now, but the rest of the tribe has amassed nearby, including Sul-Matuul. Once she nears their proximity, he raises his fist in the air and shouts, letting his voice echo over the wastes.  
“Long live the Nerevarine!”

The tribe casts their fists into the air and cheer, practically roaring, with fury and jubilation.  
A fire ignites in Jollain, trials of rejuvenation and aspirations. She truly feels reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The actual event in game, perhaps due to engine or gameplay limitations at the time, is much more mellow, I guess you can call it. I wanted to have a little additional fanfare, due to the significance of the ceremony. And I guess I just like tattoos. Not a very complex design, I know, but...yeah._


	34. Test the faithful

Everything has changed and yet it is all the same. Their sentiments and beliefs progress, yet the world needs much more of a radical push, before it can truly grasp the impact of this transformation.

A couple of days have passed since the ceremony and Jollain’s official ‘appointment’ to her new role. For the time being, the team has elected to remain within the confines of the Urshilaku camp, for what they consider to be some fairly solid reasons. It has felt like the safer option, seeing as how this tribe may very well be the only genuine allies they have left, when almost the entire rest of Vvardenfell is likely poised on hunting them down.

Alright, that might admittedly be a slight exaggeration of their ordeal, but it cannot be ignored how precarious their situation has become, when viewed from every direction. Any avenue which leads to a larger settlement is filled with question marks and potential hazards.  
While Jollain has been trying to stay in her assigned tent during this period, as to wait for her tattoo to wane and solidify, she has spent most of her waking hours inside and out of sight. Her skin may not be fully back to its healthy state just yet, but it feels a mountain-load better than it did in the aftermath. She’s beginning to regain her capacity to strategize, such as it is.

Jollain hasn’t previously been one to plan very far ahead, and she can’t claim that she altogether knows how in Oblivion they’re going to accomplish the daunting tasks that are laid out before her. Azura said she has faith, that Jollain’s latent competence and ties to heroes of old will grant her the victory which she is meant to achieve, but that means very little in practical terms. Faith can’t topple gods, except perhaps indirectly and she is in dire need of a tangible method.

Hoping to find a modicum of comfort in her girlfriend, as Tayerise is not inside the tent with her at this time, Jollain exits her self-constructed isolation and goes looking for the dunmer in her vicinity.  
Almost instantly, she encounters members of the Urshilaku, people who are conducting the various tasks and activities required to keep every aspect running and maintain their way of life. Every single person seems to have some responsibility, working in perfect unison to achieve the intended goals which generates a state of normalcy in this simple landscape of theirs. She admires their tenacity, their refusal to surrender their practices, despite the pressure from the hostile environment.

As soon as anyone spots her form, however, they turn and greet her, offering short bows of their heads or a friendly wave. Not as heavy emphasis on veneration as they showcased during the ascension rite, but she actually appreciates that. There’s still an unmistakable degree of respect, but perhaps they’re gleaning the clues of her state, that she’s not super comfortable with being depicted as an involuntary hero.

Jollain distributes brief nods in return to virtually everyone she can feasibly witness, but never stops. She strolls past each of them, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the wastes, but she pursues her aim.  
In the outskirts of the camp, ironically enough, she finally locates the woman she’s been seeking. Not quite as far out as Jollain once wandered to get some space in her ambivalent bout of self-doubt, but still distantly enough to be in a solitary position.

The warrior is not totally alone, though, for their little guar companion is accompanying her. Tay is seemingly performing a few exercises with Amnet, testing his reflexes and expanding the limits of their coordination. Functionally, this includes maneuvers such as sprinting through a makeshift track course, hunting nearby miniature prey or, like at this time, utilizing a stick to prod and poke him, to observe how capable he is of defending himself and simultaneously snatching it from her. Periodically, she circles his position, to escape his grasp and entice him to chase her.  
It appears Amnet is, by and large, intelligent enough to understand the difference between combat, play and lessons, at least to a certain extent. He may still perceive it as an entertaining activity, because he can’t mentally process Tay as a foe, but he does make an effort to remain serious.

It brings Jollain an ample amount of joy to watch them together in this fashion, the two who matter most to her in life, regardless of what it entails, even with all the transitional elements she has had to undergo in the past few months. They might just be the components which will always bring her a sense of warmth and safety. They just have that intrinsic effect.

Yesterday, Jollain relayed the entire tale of her excursion to Tay, what she saw and experienced in Kogoruhn, across the wastes and Ashlands, the duel with Sul-Matuul and the venture into the Cavern of the Incarnate.  
Tay was immensely intrigued by every detail, especially the story of Vyraine, from where Jollain originate in spirit. That may be a past with a divide of hundreds of years, but Tay was elated that Jollain actually has proof of her history now. It’s a valuable factor, important to one’s self-worth, from her point of view.

The idea that her girlfriend would have directly spoken to Azura though, a goddess and entity out of this world, that was just incomprehensible. Utter madness and nigh unthinkable to believe and wrap her head around. She did not flat out dispute Jollain’s telling in any way, but it was so incredibly mind-blowing. She hasn’t ever spoken to any of the Tribunal, presumably never will, and here comes Jollain out of nowhere, saunters in and brags about her almost face-to-face chat with the lady of Dawn and Dusk. And from what Tay could discern, a casual conversation at that. She made Azura laugh! Is that even possible?

Jollain had tried to insist that it was far from laid-back, let alone easy to parse. She explained that the goddess hurled a plethora of riddles, proverbs and metaphors that meant nothing to the bosmer besides gibberish, but she had to admit that it was a thrilling experience at the very least. A once in a lifetime experience, one might say.  
Hopefully, anyway. Unlike a wide range of Tamriel’s citizens, she has no desire to be pals with someone like Azura, or a deity in general for that matter. They’re too callous, filled with capriciousness. She’ll stick to the realities she knows, thank you very much.

In any case, in the here and now, Jollain chooses to interrupt her two favorite people’s little one-on-one.  
“Hey there, beautiful. Having a lil’ fun with our dear handsome boy, huh?”

Once Tay decelerates her current activities, she steers a faint smile at her lover.  
“Finally left the tent? Glad to see you’re up and about. And no, we’re actually-“  
Her elaboration is halted by the sound of Amnet’s excited squeak, as he immediately veers and rushes to greet the bosmer, enabling Jollain to pat and cuddle with him. Tay sighs.  
“…testing out new battle maneuvers. But that can wait, I guess.”

Jollain snickers as she leans down to caress the guar’s soft scales and plant a kiss on his head. This time, she does not repeat the mistake of leaving herself open to his pouncing. She stays on her feet.  
“And good morning to you too, bud! Who’s the most charming guar in all of Morrowind, huh? And you’re just getting more irresistible every day! Want a snack? Got a little somethin’ in my pocket here.”

Tay straightens her pose and rolls her eyes, though a small smile forms nonetheless. She can’t really get mad at either of them for indulging a few treats now and then.  
Her gaze soon travels to the vision of Jollain’s brand.  
“Looks like the tattoos are coming along nicely. Mind if I take a closer peek?”

“Only if that includes a kiss too.”

“Tsk. Is that a demand, lady Indoril?”

Suddenly, Jollain’s eyes narrow somewhat dangerously, though she doesn’t seem explicitly angry.  
“Hey now, don’t wanna hear none of that any time soon.”

Tay chuckles and casually steps closer, stroking a hand along her girlfriend’s cheek, to steady the angle. Her eyes sweep the curvature of the moon, the peaks of the star and their carefully tweaked placements.  
“Definitely not as fresh anymore. Much better infused on your skin.”

“Mhm, feels that way. Been trying to hasten the recovery time by sleeping, which seems to work.”

Tay arches her brow skeptically.  
“Uh, that doesn’t actually shorten the process, you know. It simply-“

Jollain snorts and playfully pokes her stomach.  
“Yeah, yeah, I get that. I meant the perceived time, dummy. Don’t have to feel the itch all the damn day, if I’m asleep. Been very tired anyway, so this was a nice lil’ break.”

“Certainly suits you too. You look gorgeous.”

In reaction, Jollain soon sports an excessively confident smirk.  
“Well, duh. Aren’t I always?” Her hand grabs and slyly tugs at the dunmer’s shirt. “Now how about that smooch, good-looking?”

Seems to Tay that Jollain is regaining some of her smugness once more, and that touch of tantalizing allure which the warrior can never get enough of. It’s good to see and hear, but she also cannot permit Jollain to grow too self-satisfied. Not without a contest, anyway.  
Seizing the initiative, Tay’s hands travel down the route of her lover’s soft and curved frame, across the sides, the hips and eventually at the slopes of her rear. Tay takes a firm and steady grip around them, easily heaves the short and lighter woman up in the air, much to Jollain’s abrupt surprise. Redirecting her hand to plant it on the bosmer’s back, as to provide some support, Tay guides their lips into a passionate collision, a caress that wrests Jollain from realms of mischief and plunges her into a pool of desire. The thief’s eyes flutter close and her fingers dig into her lover’s hair, cherishing every second of this occurrence. She is nearly on the verge of pleading for Tay to take her right this instant.

At least a minute later, once the fires abate, in spite of Jollain’s innermost thoughts telling her to relish this opportunity, they part their lips, but still linger in close proximity. The bosmer unconsciously rubs her forehead against Tay’s, their noses infrequently colliding in tender bumps, while their eyes remain shut.  
“How was that?”, Tay eventually manages to produce.

Jollain opens her mouth, stops to cough mildly, before she replies in a slightly raspy voice.  
“It was uh…” she clears her throat, “good, yeah. Really fucking...needed that.”

She doesn’t see it, but Tay flashes a small grin, being pleased with herself.  
“Be nice and maybe you’ll get another one later”, she hints huskily.

“…teasing me, gorgeous? Better make good on that promise, or I _will_ tear off those clothes and drag you into our tent in front of all these people.”

With an unpreventable giggle, Tay gently lowers Jollain back to the ground, though they remain in an intimate position, their hands intertwined.  
“Promise.”  
As she fondly runs a few fingers through the copper strands, Tay’s attention drifts to the distant and busy sight of the tribe.  
“Speaking of the Urshilaku, I met with a few of them earlier. Noticed that their attitudes had changed and shifted. There’s excitement and…anticipation, I suppose, all over.”

Taking a deep breath, to temper the overbearing notion of her lust, Jollain rests her body against Tay’s chest, sliding a few discreet fingers beneath the dunmer’s shirt, to fondle the abs beneath.  
“Mm, I know. Still can’t shake that feeling of it being a little weird, though.” Her gaze gains an absent quality.  
“Sometimes, I wonder who they see – me or Nerevar?” Closing her lids, she shrugs, almost lamentably. “Never wanted to be anyone else, but I can’t avoid it now. This tattoo kinda screams of ‘not like everyone else’. Don’t reckon I’ll be very useful to the Thieves Guild from here on out.”

Thankfully, Tay is sympathetic to these sentiments, tilting down to press her lips to the top of Jollain’s head.  
“Completely understandable. After the type of life you’ve lived prior to these last few months, I see how earthshattering this must be. But don’t allow yourself to be swallowed by hesitation or anxiety. Don’t forget that you still have a team here, darling. We have your back and we will support you, through thick and thin.”

The exhale she emits is weary, but Jollain tries not to become too dismayed.  
“I know, and it’s one of the few sources of solace I have.” She grinds to a temporary halt, contemplates her options and avenues, while biting at her lip. She wishes to find some method to articulate an emotion that makes her both concerned and embarrassed.  
“It’s…kinda silly, but…no matter how many changes or phases I endure, before the end of this sorry tale, what I dread the most – besides duking it out with the Tribunal and lava boy – is…losing you.”

That undeniably draws Tay’s attention, as she snaps to and looks down at Jollain with increased bemusement.  
“Losing me?”

“Yeah. Not that you’ll die or-…okay, yes, that too, but that’s not my point.” She contests the aversion to face Tay and looks deeply into those wondrous crimson eyes.  
“I don’t want you to see me as anyone but me – your girlfriend. Everyone else will view me as…a load of crap. Nerevarine, Hortator, hero, legend, rebel, criminal, spy…whatever. To you, I just wanna be Jollain.”

Ah, now she grasps the gravity of the intent, the core issue. Very carefully, Tay touches Jollain’s hand, stroking her thumb at its back, as a wave of honesty is cemented in her expression.  
“Never worry about such trifles, dear. You will always be Jollain in my eyes, the little awkward and cheeky thief I fell in love with.”

“Heh. Right after she stole from and knocked you on your ass during our first encounter, you mean.”

“Well…yes, that did happen. I was hoping to skip that part, though.”

Her evasion makes Jollain embrace a bit of laughter and joy once more, as she leans in to grant Tay an affectionate hug. Provides her with a glimmer of internal stability.  
“Wonder where our journey is gonna lead us now, though. I mean, we obviously have to pursue the trials and all that jazz, but where to start? There are so many crossroads and complex routes. A bunch of ‘em may end in pain or more likely, serious failure.”

“Aye, I’ve been pondering this fact as well. As I see it, going to the Ahemmusa first is the preferable decision for two reasons – we will, in all likelihood, receive a warmer welcoming over there and it is geographically closer.”

Jolllain pushes a few rebellious locks of hair from her face, which flaps in the wind, while she digests this suggestion.  
“Don’t have any problems with that idea, except maybe your feelings on it. Do you figure you’re ready to go back after all these decades?”

It is complicated for Tay to track down an immediate source of feedback here, largely due to how conflicted she truly is.  
“Honestly, I…can’t be sure just yet.  
I hardly even remember what it was like to traverse the wastes and live the life in the tribe, apart from a few remnant images in the depths of my memory and the stories I’ve received from my parents years after.” She wavers.  
“I…have to confess that I almost wish father was here to guide us. He knew the ways of the Ahemmusa, as he lived it.”

There is an unmistakable solemn air flanking them, but Jollain doesn’t abide its intent, as she rolls her eyes.  
“Hey, no talk like that right now, cutie. We can do this without your grumpy old man.”

“Hmm. Well, I do hope so.”

“Actually, we’ve kinda been yapping about my boring life too much in general. I’d like to hear about your situation as well. How ya holding up?”

They notice how Amnet now craves a place in their party and sits down next to Jollain. The bosmer sports a smile, kneels down and caresses his scales, while he nuzzles into her leg, enjoying the act of being cared for and pampered.  
Tay observes them as she chews on this line of inquiry, realizing that it hits her in unanticipated ways.  
“In your absence, I have conducted a bit of…soul searching, one might call it. Tried to figure out how to come to terms with the dilemmas of faith.”

“Dilemma?”

Tay grows somewhat self-conscious and attempts to alleviate this notion by kicking at a few rocks on the ground.  
“The Temple was part of who I was in the past, the ones besides my parents who taught me about morals, ethics and history. It’s difficult to just…cast such perspectives aside and forget.  
I prayed to them when times were good, hoping it would stay put. I prayed to them when times were tough, wishing it would shift. And now, I discover that it was all a charade.”

Jollain is sympathetic to this concern, at least in part, even if her past was dissimilar. Faith helped her along the way, but it was never an ideal she adopted wholeheartedly.  
“Well, I mean…it’s not all doom and gloom, right? They did still do a lot of decent stuff too.”

“That does not excuse the deception. They supplanted our ancient values and erected themselves as gods, to rule thousands for generations. They directed our history, perpetuated a sham. We can’t forget this.”

This is a new standpoint from Tay, one she has never vocalized previously. She has depicted uncertainty and disbelief, implying an internal development, but no loud verbal dissention.  
“Are you saying that you…regret part of your old actions then? For being so bogged down in their tenets?”

“No-…yes-…  
Maybe. But more importantly, I won’t let it dictate my will. I have decided that I’m going to pursue my own way, to not let faith constrain me anymore, even if that hurts. Instead, I will devote myself to you and our life together. Nothing will come between us and I won’t falter.”

Somehow, Jollain had anticipated a much sourer and sorrow-filled conclusion, an outcome steeped in despair, but this is absolutely a note she can live with, which makes her smile.  
“Sign me up for that one, beautiful. You and me against the world. Then again, guess that’s how it’s been since day one.” She hears a protesting grunt from below and chuckles, while she rubs Amnet’s head.  
“Yeah, yeah and you too, handsome.”

Tay kneels down, focuses on her beloved’s facial lines and strokes a thumb over the moon and star.  
“We will get through this hardship, Jollain. We will best the trials together.”

Bliss and delight suffuse Jollain, as she envelops and squeezes the same hand.  
“Sounds like a pretty damn good bargain to me.”

Slipping into the warrior’s arms once again, Jollain permits herself to be fully submerged in the strength, compassion and love that Tay represents, as she tilts her body and makes herself exposed to another eager kiss. Tay cements this action by holding onto her tightly, encapsulating Jollain in the affectionate and protective cradle of her arms. She will never tolerate anyone to wrench Jollain from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Due to the development of this story, I'll obviously deal with the Fifth trial first. Seems most appropriate, since they're hunted everywhere else_


	35. Cursed by collateral (part 1)

The grueling width of the Ashlands awaited the team as they departed the protective hospitality of the Urshilaku, to embark on another lengthy and dubious journey. In this session, they veered to the east, skirting the shorelines as they traversed the northern edges of the wastes, to eventually pursue the Ahemmusa tribe’s trail.

For Jollain, who enters these lands for the first time, it was a little astonishing once they actually traversed out from the Ashlands and transitioned into a green and more verdant landscape of northeastern Vvardenfell. Well, as far as the definition of this word goes on this island, that is.  
Grasslands and outwardly fairly vibrant rural hills sprawled out before them, something which Maak-Veh had classified as the ‘pastoral heartlands’. This was, as far as Jollain is able to distinguish, a deductive view rather than a poetic one. The official name in the Great House records is the Grazelands.

Technically, this is Telvanni territory on paper, but in practice, the wilds are not claimed by any sentient creature. It is a neutral domain which anyone can access and at least temporarily settle upon.  
Vaziri had previously explained that the Telvanni are seldom bothered by land disputes and given the fact that ashlanders do not stay in one site for any extended tenures, nor do they cover any sweeping space, they are largely ignored.

Additional information has pointed out that two Telvanni settlements can be traced a few days to the south and southeast – Tel Vos and Tel Mora, led by Councilors, but neither of which should prove any immediate threat to the team’s intent.  
On the road, Tayerise had vocalized a feeling she received of winds from the past, of flickering memories and ephemeral images where she travelled undefined roads in this very expanse. She recalled that the Ahemmusa herded guar here once upon a time and collected fungi as well as easily extractable plants for food and alchemical potions. Whether she truly enjoyed those years is a grey mental area, but she finds it pleasing to reminisce.

After a couple of days’ traversal, they finally behold the silhouette of a camp, the familiar shapes of yurts, smoking fires and grunting of guar.  
The group doesn’t delay and makes for their destination, but upon reaching it, they are not quite met with the type of visuals that any of them had been led to believe, especially Tay.  
“Something is…wrong here”, she remarks.

“Like what?”, asks Jollain.

“Well, first of all, you note the size? There are fewer yurts here than I can recall from my youth. And look into the center – how many people can you see in there?”

Jollain tilts her head to and fro, hoping to spot the outlines of tribesmen hiding behind the corners, but there are no extras.  
“Not a lot, yeah.”

“Not necessarily evidence of anything nefarious or troubling”, argues Vaziri. “There could be additional inhabitants in the nearby terrains, performing the duties and commitments required to maintain the camp.”

”Well, there are further errors, some that are related to your angle and make this all the more startling. Check the number of guards, for example. There aren’t even a few, but none at all. The entire camp is woefully exposed.”

Sharing her beloved’s concern, Jollain folds her arms and furrows her brow in concentration.  
“Yeah, what’s up with that? Shouldn’t there be a whole pack of ‘em around the perimeters, protecting against…uh, well, pretty much every threat in the book?”

“To a point, yes. The Ahemmusa isn’t and has never been a warlike tribe, dissimilar from some of the others. It is reflected in their philosophy and traditions, as well as their presentation. But…”  
She tentatively turns her gaze to the camp.  
“Admittedly, there should be a few of them around, at the very least. This is an…unusual display, even for them.”

As the team continues their approach, no movement is instigated from the tribe which would get in their way, at least not for quite a while. They’re either unnoticed or merely not worth the time.  
Eventually, someone’s attention is drawn, and this figure immediately begins striding towards their path. Preliminary evaluation determines that it’s a fairly young male dunmer, with shoulder length red hair and tattoos on the left side of his face. The most prominent feature is the frown he proffers. Prior to getting within aural range, he draws his bow.

“You, halt! You’re encroaching on Ahemmusa territory. Get lost, on the double”, he utters in a rather unfriendly manner. “We don’t have time for outlanders, nor a misplaced house mer.”

The group is somewhat blindsided by this uncaring reception, though not completely shocked. They had been given warnings, both by Falsabit and the Urshilaku, that the other tribes are leery of outlanders.  
Even so, Jollain pushes any outlying worries temporarily aside and takes a shot at it regardless.  
“What’s your name?”

“Why do you care?”

“Well, uh, guess I just wanna know who’s asking me to fuck off. Kinda have pretty…important news, let’s say.”

“Important news?” He scoffs. “Unlikely. I am Dutadalk, first of Ahemmusa’s Gulakhans, as pitiful as we may be. And I care nothing for whatever nonsense that a pile of n’wah has to say.”

Went about as she may have expected. If he thinks that’ll discourage her, he hasn’t seen anything yet.  
“Okay, fine, you don’t have to listen, buddy. Can we get a word with your Ashkhan instead?”

Whatever it was she inadvertently implied, Dutadalk twitches, nearly recoils, and whirls at her sharply.  
“Our…Ashkhan? Is this mockery? Did you come here to disparage us, filth?!”

Okay, this took a very snappy and odd turn. Jollain is mystified by the result and looks to Tay for answers. The warrior studies him with suspicious curiosity.  
“No, it’s a genuine request. Is there anything faulty with it? Your Ashkhan won’t see us?”

“Our Ashkhan is _dead_ , you blind fool!”

Tay widens her eyes, caught off guard by such a blunt revelation.  
“…dead?”

“Yes, dead as a skewered kagouti! Are you happy now? Leave us alone, damn you!”

Jollain decides to make an attempt at assuaging him.  
“Hey, guy, cool it off, alright? We’re not-“

“Shut your ignorant mouth!”, he spits back at her. “You know nothing! You wander in here without a care in the world, oblivious of our plight! Our herds are diminishing, our people are dying, and our lands are gradually being consumed by corruption! No one will help us, no one cares about the miserable Ahemmusa, who can’t even adequately defend themselves! And now you, clueless outlanders, come here to insult us?! Get out of my sight, before I put arrows in each of you!”

As the least impressed of all, Vaziri rolls her eyes.  
“Azurah’s glow. If nothing else, this boy can shout until his throat dries up. Might keep any assailants at bay, in lieu of a proper guard retinue”, she jests dryly.

Maak scratches pensively under his jaw.  
“Hmm, I have heard similar updates, now that he mentions it. I recall Caius saying something to this effect. Agents in adjacent regions reported how this land has, overall, withstood a disproportionate amount of damage.”

Jollain slowly inclines her head.  
“Figure this must be another puzzle of the prophecy. Gotta be one of those curses Mehra talked about. Suppose we have to unravel it, so to speak.”

With growing suspicion, Dutadalk levels a stern frown in their direction.  
“And what are you whispering about over there? Do I have to repeat my demand?!”

“Hey, pal, chill. And we weren’t whispering. Was using a conversational tone, actually.  
The reason we’re here is because of the prophecy.”

His aversion slinks away, though only lightly, to be substituted with puzzlement.  
“Prophecy?”

“Uh-huh. You see, well…”  
She wavers. It’s weird to think that, after all these months, all these trials and very real nightmares, she still can’t just come and blurt out the reality. At least not without stumbling.  
“I’m uh, the Nerevarine.”

A break and a void fills the air around them in the subsequent seconds, as the Gulakhan is stunned or perhaps baffled, at a loss for words, chiefly out of disbelief. He stares at all five, as if they’re the dumbest people he’s ever encountered, utterly gormless.  
“Wh…what did you just say? I must have…misheard.”

“No, you’re pretending like you did. Just hear us out, okay? No matter what your brain might wanna tell you or trick you into thinking, I am the Nerevarine. The Urshilaku gave me their blessing.” She briefly dips her head sideways in an anxious fashion. “…kind of. I was chosen by-“

She stows further details, when he lifts his bow and nocks an arrow.  
“First you spit in our faces about our Ashkhan’s death, and now you mock us with fairytales?! Piss off or I will fire! You have five seconds!”

As this is crossing the edge into actual risk, action is taken by an outside party. His anger is mitigated by a figure who steps out of a separate yurt and calls out.  
“Dutadalk! Stop yelling like a starving nix hound and lower that weapon, boy. You’re more prone to hurt yourself than make any dents in these outsiders.”

He bristles at such a public insult and shifts in the correct direction, to glare at the emerging woman, though not in an extremely ardent manner.  
“…I am the Gulakhan of this tribe and I will not be ridiculed in front of-“

“Silence”, she commands calmly, but firmly. “You will not address me with such disrespect. Understand?”

This man is patently fueled by a fusion of pride and wrath, unwilling to submit to almost anyone, even his superiors. In this particular case, however, the only choice he has is to curtail his eagerness for a fight.  
“…yes, Wise Woman. My sincerest apologies”, he states begrudgingly and accedes to her request.

The title overtly gets the attention of all the visitors and they curiously scrutinize the older dunmer. Grey skin, darker and beadier red eyes, intermingled with grey and close to white hair, though she does look younger and sprier than Nibani. Moderately so, anyhow.  
“Well met, strangers”, she greets as she heads directly into their vicinity. “You should feel permitted to wander these fields, though we have dreadfully little to offer. You may call me Sinnamnu Mirpal, and I wear the mantel of Ahemmusa’s Wise Woman, if you’re familiar with this title.”

“Yeah, we’ve come across it a couple o’ times”, Jollain admits. “Was he serious, by the way? You really don’t got an Ashkhan?”

A grim wave surges over the old elf, as she slumps her shoulders and sighs dejectedly.  
“I’m afraid so, nor do we have a replacement. Whatever you came here to seek, you shall have to leave without.”

They had expected opposition, but it sounds like this is a far direr situation than anyone could’ve foreseen.  
“But, uhm, didn’t you hear what we said? I’m the-“

Sinnammu elevates an interrupting hand, her eyes diverted.  
“Your claims and grandstanding are not of interest here. All is lost and so will Ahemmusa be, sooner or later. Prophecies are meaningless.”

Hearing a Wise Woman, who’s meant to gather, analyze and embody the spiritual and supernatural among the ashlanders – this tribe’s lack of belief in the Nerevarine notwithstanding – speak such dismal sentiments is…unprecedented and disheartening.  
“But…”

“I apologize for the lack of accommodations and the improper conduct, but no generosity is left for the Ahemmusa.  
Go home, outlanders. Take your quest to where hope still exists.”

Her tone is worn and monotone, bereft of color. She turns around and obviously means to simply leave them as is, but Tayerise won’t have it.  
“Wait!”, she reaches out. “Please, I implore you to listen.  
I’m Tayerise, daughter to Falsabit, a former member of this tribe. This may have been long ago, but perhaps he has lingered in the tribe’s collective memory. With your consent, I could ask around. I’m sure you’ll see my point.”

Sinnammu has actually already come to an abrupt stop. The group fears the risk that Tay somehow offended her, but as she flips back to them, there is surprise and an amenable element on her features, even a bit of traction.  
“Did you say…Falsabit? The leatherworker?”

A faint smile takes shape on Tay’s lips.  
“Yes. He’s my father. I was born here, but we were…expelled when I was still young. I do carry the mark, on my back, however.”

The Wise Woman’s eyes become hazy and her voice decreases in volume, as she exudes an aura of introspection for a short moment.  
“Falsabit…I recall him, of course. Like a distant forlorn past now.  
He was the greatest of our leatherworkers, the best in several generations, who was painted into a corner and forced towards exile, due to our Ashkhan’s disapproval.” She exhales from her nose. “A better time, which allowed foolish choices.  
During this debacle, I had yet to be elevated as Wise Woman, but inherited the position only a few years later, when my predecessor passed away from natural causes. Since then, I am loath to admit that we have faced hardships in numerous ways – many perished in the harrowing potency of the blight, both young and old; ash storms ravaged certain flora along the grasslands, stripping us of crucial food sources; monsters persistently harassed us past every corner.  
Our clan has never been one that carries a warrior’s heart, not a warband like some Velothi are deemed as, but we had to put up with the challenges of the Red Mountain all the same.”

All four listen, while Amnet sits down patiently, reading the somberness in the situation. Jollain scratches the back of her neck, as she fidgets with her response.  
“Didn’t you…I dunno, try to go elsewhere?”

“Absolutely, with disastrous results.  
In another area, which we were camped in for a limited period, we were incessantly assaulted by ash ghouls. As an especially intense wave arose, which seemed insurmountable for us to bear, our Ashkhan established himself as a bulwark, to let those who could still stand escape.  
Sadly, not merely he, but a number of our proudest warriors either stayed behind or fell in the aftermath. This included every direct successor. With no one left to occupy his seat, I ended up as the de facto leader.”

It ails Tay’s heart to hear every syllable, that her home, her place of birth and early childhood is accosted, stalked by death.  
She steers her gaze and hopes at the shorter elf by her side.  
“Jollain, we…we have to help these people”, she comments quietly. “Please.”

Jollain, practically astounded by the request, grasps Tay’s arm.  
“Hey, why’d you even have to ask? Damn straight we’re giving ‘em a hand. And not just for the Nerevarine crap. I’d do anything for you.”

Thanks to this new flow of information, Sinnammu trains an increasingly inquisitive outlook on the bosmer.  
“What did you say your name was?”

“Uh, me? Jollain.”

“Sera Jollain…come closer, if you please. You allege to be the Nerevarine, but I must examine such assertions.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, go ahead.”

Jollain steps into Sinnammu’s vicinity, but doesn’t simply remain passive. She exposes her hand with the ring and angles the tattooed side of her cheeks in full view.  
“Ah yes, I have heard of these relics and symbols. The ring of Ancestors, of Moon and Star, supposedly belonging to old Nerevar, crafted by Urshilaku. One of the fables my mentor taught me. So they believe you are chosen.”

“Looks that way, yeah.”

In spite of the previous reprimand, Dutadalk has yet to scurry away and his annoyance prolongs.  
“Don’t play into their hands, Sinnammu. This is a trick, plain and simple. We ought to just tell them to buzz off and leave us in peace.”

“Keep your mouth shut, as I bid you, boy”, she dismisses him with acutely. “If there is still a fraction of hope, however minute, we must at least try. Or do you truly yearn for death this fiercely, Gulakhan? Shall we ascribe our coming extinction to you?”

Her probing hits home, and he falters.  
“N…no, Wise Woman. I didn’t…”

His intentions trail off.  
“Then quiet down and let me attend to our guests.” With his budging, she redirects her attention to the party, mainly Tay.  
“If you are Falsabit’s daughter, I won’t send you away promptly. You can be granted a chance to prove yourselves, by assisting us.”

“Of course, Wise Woman. We’ll do anything”, Tay assures her.

“You say you are the foretold Nerevarine. Then, according to the old tales, you shall deliver us from damnation, subdue the components that jeopardize our survival and secure our future. We need shelter.”

Jollain does her utmost to listen, clearing her throat in uncertainty.  
“Uh, okay. Well, I don’t really have like, a hideout or anything…”

“Which won’t be necessary – the ideal nest is already located, but stands inaccessible.  
To the north, upon an isle in the ghostly mists, there is a ruin. Our clan has always designated it as Ald Daedroth, an ancient shrine of the daedra lords.  
It was once dedicated to them who are commonly referred to as the ‘House of Troubles’, but came into disrepair and was forsaken by all. In succeeding ages, it transformed into a safe haven for Ahemmusa, in times of dire threat.  
But now, regrettably, as our final hour comes ever nearer, we are out of luck. Worshippers of Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness, have returned and restored the ancient shrines to their former glory, shielded by terrible magic and monstrous summonings. Ordinarily, the Ordinators handle the matters of cleansing such dwellings of ‘heretics’, as they view them, founded on their aversion for all daedra, but being so busy at the Ghostgate, they have neglected their duties and the cults have arisen. The House of Troubles are ever thrilled to embody chaos.”

“That does sound like a real tough one, yeah. So, you’re basically asking us to…clean ‘em out?”

“In a way, but not necessarily by violent means. Find a solution to make them leave or otherwise open it for us to utilize as a refuge. Should you come through, I swear that we will name you the Ahemmusa Nerevarine. Upon my honor as a Wise Woman, it shall be so.”

Knowing that they’re dealing with another precarious dilemma, Jollain shifts the focus to her comrades.  
“Well, fighting a bunch of daedra isn’t at all what we wanted, but…”

In contrast with both the bosmer and the other two, Tay seems driven, determined to triumph.  
“This is a mission for my clan, my people. I have an obligation to accept.”

As no protests materializes from their companions, Jollain smiles in a resigned fashion.  
“Then…guess we’re doing it, huh? Fuck me, what don’t I do for love?”


	36. Cursed by collateral (part 2)

The prospect of going willingly into a potential battle with daedra was quite haunting all on its own, but the days leading up to the deed only inflated the discomfort. The trip to their destination was far from uncomplicated to make and the characteristics of the path or the hazards of their foes was hardly the sole concern.

The main hitch was the actual absence of any physical roads to Ald Daedroth. It is situated on an island off the coast to the north, smack dab in the middle of the storied Sea of Ghosts.  
Finding available and agreeable sailors with a boat was no rudimentary or clear-cut feat. They had to search through and pick clean an entire village, asking if anyone had the bravery to take the leap. Took a while, but did eventually produce results.

Thinking back, Jollain can’t recall ever having plunged into a genuine, authentic, bona fide daedra ruin before. Or would they call it a lair? A dungeon? Why would daedra even have their own separate compounds? Was it pushed through a portal from Oblivion, or did they somehow just summon a row of buildings right in the center of a void? What would even be the purpose of such efforts? Gods are impossible to read.  
Nonetheless, this is shaping up to be quite a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Well, yet another, she supposes. Another in the pile of bizarre phenomenon which have played out during the sharp turn her life has taken.

If fanciful stories and embellished boasting are anything to rely on, she’s aware that some adventurers, researchers and audacious scavengers have a peculiar penchant for terrains like this one, as they hunt for treasure or obscure truths. If that was all Jollain and her friends were presently pursuing, she wouldn’t be so on edge.  
Whatever the case, Ald Daedroth aesthetically is far less striking than the allusions of a daedric structure or the ominous design would suggest. It’s not exactly in peak condition.

No, the ‘ruin’ label is definitely the right category to register this locale. Or maybe ‘dump’, as is the first word which pops into Jollain’s head on an initial glimpse. The place is severely rundown, corroded, left in the dust – and the dust has been accumulating to dire proportions.  
In the far gone past, there’s a chance it was a sight to behold. This is hinted at from the majestic size of the frameworks and bare bone pillars, as well as the scrawling all over the surface. But in this modern day, all of these components are no more than detritus and grime.

As they loungingly drift to the beach, the sky above the team is grey, cloudy and erratic, slipping this way and that. The very environment seems to portent an undesired end, a foreboding premonition.  
The fisherwoman they sail with – an old bosmer as it happens to be – has been wary the whole trek, but as the ghastly remnants loom above them, she appears approximately skeeved out.

“This is crazy, I tell ya. Beyond my ken why a healthy group of youngsters would wanna venture in there. You know an Oblivion-cursed hole like this can strip you of every last bit of smarts, right? Lose your mind, I swear. Heard the most grisly and awful tales of the poor sods who’s stumbled in without the knowledge and all that magic whatsit! Not an area for mortals and decent folk, I’ve always said.”

Jollain proffers a crooked and mildly resigned smile.  
“Don’t have to tell me twice. If we weren’t on a desperate mission, this place wouldn’t even be on my agenda. And describing us as ‘decent’ is kinda generous anyway.”

The older woman maintains a leery outlook and shakes her head.  
“Suit yourselves. Better not expect me to follow you in, because that won’t come through! I’ll be staying in the boat, thank you very much.”

“Wish we had that choice, but we’re all outta branches, looks like.”

Tayerise pans towards her and levels a more solemn approach.  
“Just get us onto shore and we’ll be on our way.”

“Do stick around, though”, Jollain adds. “I mean, we’d appreciate having an escape lane for when we bounce.”

“ _If_ you outlast this Y’ffre-forsaken isle”, the fisherwoman emphasizes, “then I will entertain the idea.”

Moving ashore, a powerful gust rams into them, spreading the salt from the ocean, the musty earth, but also a few out-of-place scents, like sulfur and…is that Cyrodiilic wine?  
The pebbles and gravel crack beneath their feet, but while they believe that the shrieking of cliff racers sound off beyond the mists, there is no prevalence of other ambient noises. No buzzing, no sizzling, let alone calls from grander beasts.

Wandering past towering mushrooms and calloused rocks, they listen for signs of daedra or other threats. The elven ears spasm mindfully, but nothing stands out as noticeable. Granted, their foes could very well be camouflaged in the shadows; daedra do not operate on mortal terms.  
All of them have to decrease their pace, as Maak-Veh’s voice centers their attention.  
“Here. Found an item”, he says and raises an object into the air with his claws and exposes it. “A mask of some variety. Or a broken-off section of a helmet.”

The women turn and join his side. Jollain shifts her head back and forth.  
“Huh, that’s weird. Could be related to all the wacky stuff we’re likely heading into right now.”

“Feasible, but arguably not.” He traces the tip of his claw delicately above the surface. “See the contours, resembling facial features? This is an Ordinator’s mask, I believe.”

The conversation practically ceases altogether, momentarily, before the bosmer displays an uneasy frown.  
“You’re sure?”

“Yes, it has to be the Ordinators”, he reiterates. “This distinct style is only a trend among their ranks. The precise angularity and brow accentuation likens an elf.”

This evidently presents the group with a dilemma to solve.  
“So…just thinking out loud here, but what are the odds that Sinnammu betrayed us and snuck a couple of words into the Temple’s ears?”

“It is absolutely not beyond their measure of morality”, Vaziri implies.

“That’s a bit of a leap”, argues Tay. “And implausible. We haven’t yet spotted a single Ordinator and even then, the far more imaginable outcome is that they weren’t aware.”

“The process of reaching a settlement which harbors Ordinators and then deploy them all out here, in an ambush, would also be extensive and advanced, something I have my doubts that ashlanders of this caliber can achieve in all haste”, Maak supplements.

“Fair enough”, says Vaziri.

“Yeah, good point”, Jollain concedes. “Gonna assume your insight on this maneuver is higher than ours.”

Treading closer to the ruin, a surge of anxiety ripples across each – barring Amnet, who is merely mimicking his dunmer companion – so deeply that Jollain nearly jolts. There was a wind she could detect, but her unnerved gut speaks to her belief of how it must’ve been something else at play.  
“Take heed”, Vaziri cautions. “My days as shackled by the Telvanni permitted me to study daedra and they are not merely rough creatures to grapple with, but the magic they exude is said to radiate and stain both earth and flesh that stray too intimately. Word abounds of the terrible incidents that ensue.”

“Uh, okay, that’s…a neat lesson, I guess”, Jollain responds tentatively.  
As the entrance ends up within sight, the team parks a few meters off the threshold and gradually studies where they’re getting primed to essentially encroach.  
“Damn, this is one eerie den, huh? Borderline surreal. All those twists and turns…and like, the door isn’t even uh…”

“Symmetrical”, helps Vaziri.

“Yeah, that. Why’s it so curved? It’s like someone saw this thing and felt they needed to bend it, like a sculpture. Getting an otherworldly vibe.”

“Technically, it is.  
My skills within the fields of blacksmithing and architecture may be lacking, but if Telvanni scrolls and theses on the subject speak truth, these building blocks could very well be sourced directly from Oblivion.”

Another dose of unease they have to contend with. Jollain swirls towards her girlfriend.  
“Being a dunmer and all, figure you’ve got more knowhow. The Divine priests back in the capital used to hit upon cautions and scary under-the-candle-light stories regarding the daedra, but to be frank, I don’t really have the foggiest idea what the ‘House of troubles’ are all about.”

Tay exhales pensively, her eyes perched on the image of the doorway.  
“It’s an ancient title, hearkening back to days prior to the Tribunal’s rise. More specifically, it’s accredited to prophet Veloth, when all dunmer – or chimer - worshipped the Good Daedra.  
The Good Daedra, as we’ve debated in the past, involve three figures – Boethiah, Azura and Mephala. They are the lords that are said to have helped and guided the wanderers of the wastes, as they fled from Summerset.  
But they also have their counterpart, the polar opposite – the Bad Daedra, simply put, or the ‘House of Troubles’, as Veloth deemed them. They wreak havoc and sow chaos, as they are keen on littering Morrowind with their disasters. Or so the Temple insists.”

“Right. And uh, who’re they?”

“Four – Molag Bal, the god of domination and enslavement; Mehrunes Dagon, the god of destruction; Malacath, the god of the bloody curse; and Shegorath, the god of madness.”

Jollain listens intently and folds her arms in the meantime. After it is all said and done, she arches both eyebrows in acknowledgement.  
“Wow, that’s uh…quite a dream team of nightmares. Seriously went all out, huh?”

“They were the four most thrilled to oppose the Tribunal, according to the tales. It’s…unclear to me what level of truth those claims consist of now, though, due to the secrets we’ve been provided.”

Before long, the party ventures inside, bearing witness to more peculiar and contorted designs, as well as motifs and archways that they’ve not seen anywhere else. In some respects, Jollain can almost liken sections of it to teeth or fangs, while other icons and patterns conspicuously resemble glaring eyes, wavy flames or endless spirals. At least the floor is flat, giving her some form of sensible framework to ground herself with.

Despite the ghastly atmosphere, the entrance hall lay untrodden and their footsteps echo somewhat for every meter gained. To maintain a level of alertness, they grab a torch that hangs on the wall, letting Vaziri magically light it.  
During their ostensibly aimless wandering, they reflect on a specific angle.  
“Huh. Looks kinda empty to me”, Jollain remarks quietly. “Any chance that Sinnammu was wrong, you think?”

“Not an unrealistic notion”, Maak agrees evenly. “The presence of the cultists might have been temporary.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t that be pretty sweet, huh? We should head back, give her the good-“

Her words are cut off by the fact that they virtually careen into an unexpected situation. One of the chambers, or antechamber, contains the first living figure they’ve encountered thus far. It’s a dunmer woman, dressed in some type of bonemold armor. Her skin is a light grey and her brown hair reaches down loosely past her shoulders.  
She doesn’t appear to have taken note at first, and from what they can discern by the opening, she’s standing by some sort of table, reading from a weighty tome, periodically grasping for a piece of snack lying inside a bowl. Is she in the thick of work? Doesn’t come off as looting anyway.

The team all froze in a stunning show of unison after spotting their quarry, but without any perceivable reaction – at Maak’s behest – they back off, into the corridor they just came from and barricade themselves behind the wall.  
“So, uh, any clues or theories?”, Jollain whispers.

A couple of seconds elapse, but they are filled with nothing but wordless glances. Ultimately, Maak breaks the shroud.  
“Only physical evidence, but her regalia is not one of an Ordinator.”

“And she does not ooze of magical fragrance”, Vaziri contributes.

Tay has the greatest proximity to the edge of the wall and she scowls while grabbing a brief look with one eye.  
“Fairly certain she’s not Ahemmusa either. Sinnammu would’ve notified us.”

With little other recourse, Jollain judges the situation for the rest.  
“Alright, let’s just head over and have a chat, then. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Agreed”, says the khajiit.

Though not fiercely contesting it, Maak and Tay are equally incredulous.  
“Honestly?”, asks the dunmer. “Striding straight into the room sounds risky to me.”

“Even with four-on-one odds?”

“With four newcomers versus one woman standing nonchalantly in the middle of a creepy ruin? I should think so, yes.”

Jollain folds her arms and reclines into the wall.  
“Okay, you got any other plans? I’m listening. Sitting here all day won’t win us anything.”

The two women stare at each other, testing and scrutinizing, but in the end, the result is unavoidable. Tay lifts her arms in defeat.  
“You’re the Nerevarine.”

“Tsk. Don’t gimme that. Either you got a solution, or you don’t.”

“Well, nothing that can be done in a hurry.”

The others cave in to her wishes and pursue Jollain as she skips out and leaps down the subsequent set of stairs, aiming directly for the woman. As she opens her mouth, a hand rests on the hilt of her blade.  
“Uh, hey there, stranger! Fancy meeting someone like you up in all this Oblivion nonsense.”

Curiously, the elf is not at all shocked, as someone who has feasibly been alone for a time – perhaps a protracted period? – should be. Now facing them, Jollain would proclaim her looks are decent enough, perhaps a little bit too outwardly haughty for the bosmer’s palate, as she surveys her newfound company.  
“Are you here for the play?”, she asks in an intrigued tone, evaluating their poses. “It’s a little early.”

The full quartet draws a blank.  
“…play?”, wonders Jollain, nonplussed. “What kind of play?”

The unknown woman’s expression morphs into a more excitable emotion.  
“Ah, now I see. Are you potentially the thespians we’ve been awaiting?”

“…come again?”

“Performers? Actors? Stage artists?”

“Well, I mean…we haven’t-“

Her senses throttle down, gaining a discontent value.  
“Wait, you aren’t production assistants coming to beg for a few coins, right? My apologies, my dears, but we have enough of those as it is.”

“Look, lady, we’re not any-“

She flicks her hand dismissively.  
“Be you stagehands or utility personnel, you have entered via the incorrect door. They go around the back.”

“Enough of this”, Tay interjects acutely. “We have no interest in a…play or whatever it is you’re yammering about. We are here on behalf of the ashlander tribe Ahemmusa. They want to know if you will negotiate for entrance to this…dungeon you have infested.”

The room grows inexplicably still, and a layer of suspense fills the air, as the woman silently stare at them. It’s an ambiguous gaze, possibly infused with internal reservations, but it’s nigh impossible to decipher.  
“And are you yourselves ashlanders, perchance?”

“No, ‘course not”, Jollain confesses. “The ‘behalf’ part didn’t give it away?”

Tay folds her arms.  
”We represent them, as they seek shelter here.”

The woman scoffs and promptly turns her back.  
“Well then, it would appear we have a flock of pesky delinquents. I shall have to consult our security staff for an ancillary opinion.”

“Secur-“

They’re on the verge of quizzing her what such a description entails, but further complaints are cut short by her lifting a hand and casting a quick spell. Instantly following this event, four fonts of magic burst into existence, from one corner each.  
Materializing from swirling mists without forewarning comes four startling and highly ambivalent creatures – they are decisively humanoid, that much is unambiguous, but hardly of Nirn.

Their golden skins and shining armor remind the group of high elves to a slight degree, although these women are glowing somewhat. On top of this, their gear is all moderately revealing in a few positions, which seems off, uncanny one might deem it.  
“Azurah have mercy, those are Golden Saints!”, blurts Vaziri. “They fit the delineation from Telvanni encyclopedias.”

“Erm, right. Guessing that’s bad?”, Jollain replies.

“Very bad!”

“Always is, huh? Funny how that works…”

Each of the four daedra are equipped with sharp gleaming blades that emanate a portentous enchantment and shields with indeterminable endurance, but with substantial sizes – almost too huge to be logically viable.  
None of them have managed to take a single step, prior to Vaziri already casting a spell.  
“My proficiency with the conjuration school leaves much to be desired, but I’ll do my best to provide us with a boon. You must keep the gold coins distracted, however.”

Surprising no one, Tay is the first to leap in and strike, drawing her axe to block the seething daedra. They don’t speak or say much at all, merely glare at each with scornful eyes.  
The dunmer brings her weapon down for a sky-bearing blow at the alpha of the creatures, betting on the edge of a proactive assault. Tay is marginally shorter, but they can’t be invincible, can they?

However, Tay’s venture is by no means a seamless effort. These beings are far more resilient and powerful than she had initially assumed. Her attempt is curtailed by the rugged power of the shield strapped to the Saints’ arm and to her dawning horror, the expression on its visage barely alters an inch.  
“What in the-...not enough momentum for you? Then how about…”

Her adversary seems poised to give what for right back, but Tay lifts her leg and kicks it in the stomach, rotates and gets at it with a sidelong swing on the shield-less end. Due to the impetus, the warrior can’t be sure whether armor got in the way or if it was reflected at the last second, but no damage is made.  
Bit by bit, it’s flagrant that her compulsion to be the bastion for her team falters, as the daedra will tolerate this stalling no more. It rams a shield into her armored chest, pushing her away and then whales on her with blow after blow. Tay grits her teeth and hangs in for the first by parrying it with the axe’s head. The ensuing strike is reflected with the hilt, as is the next, but the frequency is ramping up and her perseverance is not unlimited.

She half expects to be overtaken, and it nearly occurs, but the final killing measure is intercepted – Maak’s spear is jabbed in between and then swatted against the assailant, to take some of the load off. Tay can exhale in relief.  
“T…thanks, Maak!”

“Hold onto it for when we make it out of here alive”, he responds, soon hounded by an enemy of his own. It would appear that the corridor is not so thin as to bottleneck the attack.

Once she’s inundated with a dogged surge of her own, Jollain makes use of the reflexes and speed she’s honed since arriving on the island, dodging and sidestepping swings and dire cuts.  
“Hey, you got any idea who we are? Don’t know how quickly rumors spread, but I’ve been blessed by-“  
Her argument is thwarted by the Golden Saint hurling a merciless bladed retort, being a millisecond away from digging into Jollain’s flesh, but the bosmer rolls away, really cutting it close.  
“Whoa! That’s not very nice, when I’m trying to have a goddamned conversation here!”  
As the glossy daedra unshuts its lips, nothing other than a foreign echo escapes its mouth. The one parallel Jollain can draw is to the whirring cacophony vented by Yagrum’s spider legs. Jollain inadvertently shudders.  
“…not the talkative types, huh? Alright, let’s do this the hard way.”

Knowing by now how futile clashing of strength is – especially for someone as dexterity-based as she tends to be – Jollain tries her hand at outwitting these knuckleheads instead. From the full frontal force they bring, in all likelihood, tactics isn’t their strong suit. She eludes and evades, until the window to duck and cycle behind her rival emerges. She snatches it, twirls around and like an unyielding flood, her blade goes for one of many pockets in the armor.  
Unfortunately, every retaliating hit is virtually a waste of energy. To her utter shock, the blade doesn’t penetrate the skin. No damage manifests on the beast.

Jollain is so stumped that she’s close to delivering a freebie for the Saint, but awakens at the last plausible instant to retreat.  
Did she just witness what she thought it was? It took a blow straight up and walked out unscathed? What in all the burning hells of Oblivion are their hides made of?  
“…Vaziri, what gives?!”, she yells, shortly following a dodge roll below an uncompromising slash from the Golden Saint facing her. “They’re shaking off our weapons as if we’re tickling ‘em!”

Vaziri has erected a barrier of ice on the ground ahead of her, to temporarily keep her foe at an acceptable length.  
“This is what I meant! They are impervious to mortal weapons.”

“…you’re kidding me. But we don’t have anything else!”

“Give me a damn moment, will you?!”

Trying their best to keep it together and bear the brunt of the onslaught from these ineffable entities, the tides do eventually shift, and at an astounding rate. They hear an auditory cue, like a key locking into place; or perhaps more appropriately, flames being contained and manipulated. Vaziri summons an enchantment which imbues each of her allies’ tools with surface-level fire, an ability they’ve not experienced until now.

“There! Your weapons have been injected with enough incantations that they should be able to carve out fractures in our foes. Requires an adequate application of strength, but I trust you can manage now, yes?”

Adding to the preparation, Vaziri launches a wave of icy spikes.  
“Hold up. Magic works?”, Jollain asks, slightly miffed. “Why didn’t you tell us that before?”  
The bosmer siphons energy into her hand and unleashes a cascade of lightning bolts at her own foe, who has to angle its shield and abstain from additional attacks.

Affirming what Jollain previously discovered, despite a mortal simulacrum, the Golden Saints are not vocal, or at the very least refuses to address the ‘intruders’ in any way. There are infrequent grunts, perhaps even an aspect that resembles a growl, but no syllables. Or is this simply how they communicate? Wouldn’t be mindboggling to surmise that they see denizens of Nirn as inferior and thus won’t deign to converse.

The balance of the battle is equal across the board for much of its duration. In spite of a spotty inception, Jollain's crew slowly ascends to a critical mass, a peak where they can rise to the challenge.  
Tayerise succeeds in holding her own, by and large, which is partially in thanks to Amnet’s assistance as a diversion. Vaziri accomplishes a similar outcome, flinging all the destruction she has stored in her, but Jollain and Maak struggle somewhat in the onset.

The bosmer has faced daunting dissenters at every turn and step to this present mess, but these ethereal specters of golden death have the capacity for supernatural vitality and velocity.  
At one instance of the battle, a Golden Saint is trying to corner Jollain, and is succeeding. She tries to take advantage of chinks in the defenses, but the daedra is adamant, refusing to let up, denying her reprieve. Hope is diminishing, but it is not depleted.  
Risking her own health, Tay bellows a battle shout and catapults herself into its back, barely rescuing the bosmer. This grants Jollain the option to spin out and counterattack.

Less usefully is the consequence. It puts Tay in a sticky scenario, as the Golden Saint next to her barges in. Seeing no other fork in the road as serviceable, Jollain reacts with pure visceral instinct. She collects as much lightning as she can muster and discharges the entire bundle in a wanton torrent. It collides with the daedra and thrusts it into the wall.  
“Tay, you alright?!”

The dunmer, who had noticed her own mistake, pants out of ease.  
“Y…yes, I’m alive. All thanks to you.”

“Was only repaying the favor!”

Across the other side of the battlefield, Maak is facing a similar quandary, being corralled into employing his surroundings to his benefit, in slim hope of flipping the current track of the battle. All he has truly been able to achieve is hampering it, slowing its pace. A small monument of some sort has been constructed near a wall and he runs around it, trying to utilize it to get an obstacle in between them. Its size is practical enough that the length of his spear will give him the upper hand.

Sadly, he takes the physicality for granted. In lieu of chasing him continuously, the Saint hisses and swipes with the blade in a wide arch, cutting the shrine apart and kicks it towards Maak, compelling him to evade and once more ignite the pursuit.  
As a former hunter, there is nothing that grates more on Maak than to be badgered into becoming the prey. It’s not his natural instinct to be in this position. Without fail, he should turn the tables eventually, and yet his normal routine of tricks isn’t working here. Not like it did versus the Grand Inquisitor. He’ll have to adopt a new strategy.

Nearby, he notes how Vaziri is hard at work on her Golden Saint, but the issue at hand is apparently this daedra’s natural resistance and affinity for destruction schools, coupled with its robust weaponry. She can likely prevail if she busts out some of her more potent spells, but this will drain much of her energy, which she might still need. Maak notes an opportunity for synergy.  
“Vaziri, to the left!”

Both of the khajiit’s ears perk, even the scarred one, as her eyes gravitate to his. It takes a second for her to grok the aim, but she complies. Herding the daedra into the pertinent spot, Maak alters the heading of his sprint and his body, tossing his spear and letting it soar through the air. Bullseye, as anticipated, right in the back, with a crackling commotion leaving its throat, like crunching glass.

The torch is passed over and with Vaziri now being free, she staves off the one hounding Maak with a pulse of lightning.  
In a further show of teamwork and communality, they finish their foes one by one. Swift and decisive action ends Vaziri’s previous hurdle, as they cut and burn it, before she infuses his spear with heightened magical energy and he uses it like an approximation of a strike from the heavens to cast it into the monster’s chest.

With both down, the argonian and khajiit share a glance and a respectful nod.  
“Well done”, offers Maak.

“And you as well, Spymaster. I rarely collaborate, but this was exciting.”

“I will…acquiesce to your assessment. Reminded me of my days in Black Marsh.”

In the same vein, Tay and Jollain’s combat has also concluded. Interestingly, as the attackers are defeated and toppled, no corpses remain – they simply vanish into smoke, as if they had never been here to begin with, leaving no traces of their existence.  
Catching her breath, Jollain rubs the back of her hand over her forehead.  
“What a waste. A wave of pretty golden girls and all they wanna do is slice us up and make us into blood cakes. Why the fuck is there never an upside to being the Nerevarine? When does Jollain get to win, huh?”

Tay rests her axe against her shoulder, practically mirroring the pace of each breath.  
“Jollain…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Never mind.”

As the battle ends and the scene simmers down, they train eyes on the woman who summoned, or at least beckoned the daedra here. She does not look especially perturbed by the loss.  
“Well, that settles it, then”, she states matter-of-factly. “Off we go.”

She turns on her heel and takes off towards a separate exit.  
“…what?”, asks a perplexed Jollain. “Did she just…?”

“Stop!”, Tay calls out. “Where do you think you’re going?!”  
The team all reconvene and tails this strange individual, but has only one choice – hunting her.

This proves to be the most detrimental of all decisions. While they believe that she simply passed into another room, the reality is far more abstract. As they stride towards the same gateway, they find themselves detached, in a brand-new zone altogether.  
Unceremoniously and sans explanation, the walls are gone, the floor is swapped for earth and wilted grass and there is an actual sky overhead, though it fluctuates in a menagerie of colors. In addition, it could roughly be labeled as a painting, which settles unease in all who view it.

Jollain herself stares at the whole revelation with a fusion of puzzlement and rising dismay.  
“Where…in Oblivion are we?”


	37. Cursed by collateral (part 3)

Fluctuating truths and oscillating definitions of life’s veracity. Jollain has experienced what a dream world can be like a few times at this stage, so real and yet abstract enough that it can’t possibly have any basis in reality. What she and her cohorts are trapped in now imparts her with this instinct head on, how it can’t unveil itself in anything but a fantasy, a conjuration of her mind’s jumbled mess. But then why are her senses declaring otherwise?

There are many facets to the answer of why they can’t have remained on Nirn – except of course if they happened to have gotten teleported halfway across the world, but even such an assumption is debatable.  
Inarguably, this area does at least not resemble Vvardenfell in any conceivable way. Crooked and yet sturdy trees; grass that is wilted and yet seem to glimmer with sparks of life; a sky which is flagrantly painted, artificial, but yet retains a measure of elation and vibrance. Whomever constructed this must have had a vivid frame of mind.

With no exit in sight, the group proceeds along the only avenue they’re afforded, wandering these paradoxical woods, both cast in shadows and sparkling with sunlight, all of it sheer imitation.  
After minutes of muted walking, they come upon another obscure tableau. In the center of a glade, an ensemble of individuals are situated at a long table which lines the outside of what is ostensibly a wooden stage. All manner of grisly visions are strewn across the ground, potentially as decoration to serve the purpose of filling out the scene. At best, it merely instills all onlookers with dread.

The entire batch is hard to describe with words, but they can at least identify intestines constructed like scarecrows with a spine as its foundation, a fence filled with fangs – each speared with a decapitated head – odd Temple symbols that have been splattered with blood, unfathomable poles filled with blinking eyes and glitter on top, as well as cheese sprinkled in between every new macabre bauble. In the stage at the core of the premises, absurdly enough, they notice a bunch of Ordinators, but their clothes are all ragged and corroded. They appear to be dancing with one another in a keenly coordinated fashion. A play rehearsal, presumably?

Sitting on one of the chairs is a particular individual, with another one standing a couple of inches behind him and two guards which they can seamlessly tag as Golden Saints. The dunmer woman is striding in a brisk pace straight for their spot.  
The one seated applauds and sporadically inserts critique.  
“Bravo! Magnifique pirouette, madame! Oh, but I do wish your partner would get on his tippy toes some more, for aesthetical symmetry. Don’t disappoint me now! Everything must maintain pristine quality to fulfill the masterpiece! Don’t force me to employ the discipline void again!”  
Suddenly, he pushes his hands overhead, in an exasperated maneuver.  
“No! You sausage-headed buffoon, what are you doing, man?! Lift him up, you contemptible louse, not toss him like a steaming loaf! Must I perform every single menial task myself to get it just right? Atrocious!”

The crew are mystified as to what the best way to react here would be, in this unbroken state of anarchy and inexplicable visions. Amnet instinctively hisses, clearly unsettled by the vibe, meaning Tay must kneel and caress the guar, to keep him relatively calm.  
The figure behind the shouting man converses briefly with the dunmer, precipitating his decision to align a mildly dulled gaze towards them. He approaches in a casual pace.

Though they don’t wish to impose beliefs, to them, this is overtly a man. A human to be exact, possibly a breton or imperial, based on the light complexion. He’s dressed in quite lavish black apparel with crimson highlights, though the puffy shoulder pieces and sleeves, accompanying the tight fit of the clothes overall, strikes the team as being marginally out of place for this environment. He comes off as belonging in a court room as an assistant, not a blood-drenched forest. He’s bald, except for a grey bush at the back.

“My, my”, he states in a dry and lightly pestered tone. “More rabble for the Lord’s artistic experiments? Well, I suppose it is pertinent, as the cast has assembled, by and large.”

Jollain throws a puzzled glance to her friends, but they all look torn as to how to proceed. Hinges on her to preside over it for the time being.  
“What in Julianos' name is going on here? And who the fuck are you?”

“Hmph. A crude posture, but you are the guests.  
You may refer to me as Haskill, Chamberlain to the Prince of Madness, Sheogorath.”

And just like that, a tremor of tension paralyzes the entire team. If the allusions are on the mark, this might be an exceedingly precarious scenario.  
“Uh, what? You…serve Sheogorath?”

“Why, of course. The land you have parked your mortal feet onto is not the Shivering Isles, but my duties are never ending, be they here in a pocket realm or in the Never-There.  
Mistress Hlireni Indavel, one of the Prince’s great admirers which you should already have familiarized yourselves with, has kept me abreast of your plight. She cited a request of yours.”

”I mean, something along those lines, yeah. Dunno why she had to bring us all the way out here. Wherever ‘here’ is.”

“She parses the wills of her betters, I would infer. Conclusively, it is not she who dictates the ruin’s fate.”

“O…kay uh, then who does?”

“Why, the Lord of the Never-There himself, naturally. This should be a given.”

Now with widened eyes, Jollain shares several strained looks with her friends. What have they gotten themselves into this time?  
“Wait, hold up, take a step back. Are you telling us that you’ve got a freaking daedra lord here?”

“Your voice rings of distrust. Very well, to each their own. It is not for me to adjudicate your wits and clarity.” He gestures to the gentleman he was previously perched by. “Approach, if you so desire.”

It’s mildly consoling that they may still have a sliver of agency in this enterprise, though this could be a pure façade and they are unlikely to ever expose the truth, should this be a genuine god they’re faced with. They elect to take him up on his offer, just as the seated fellow is on another asinine spiel.  
“No, not the leg! You must twist it, bring it about and position it over your neck – like a fine extravagant pearl necklace! Without the pearls. And add a string of flesh globules. It’s so easy I could do it in my sleep! What seems to be the problem, you deficient swine? Malleability!” He dramatically throws his arms in the air. “Ah, fools and unbelievers! None of you have the comprehension for drama in the psychedelic, the serrated gravitas!”  
As quickly as he smoldered, the man converts to an apathetic guise and shrugs carelessly.  
“Oh well, shouldn’t enlist an entourage of the daft and the wild. More the folly’s quarry am I!”

Whatever he sees, it’s not the performance on the stage, as the Ordinators are stuck in a slow and arduous dance, like trees rustling in the wind, their faces stony and empty. They look magically entranced.  
“Ancestors have mercy, what is he doing with them? This is…gruesome”, remarks Tayerise. “I feel sorry for them.”

By closing in, they behold a rather atypical man to say the least. A fine set of vestments adorn his form, but everything is a little uneven and asymmetrical. One side of his jacket is gold, but the opposite is dark blue. The latter hosts an array of sun patterns, while the former sports deformed, barbed thorns and for some inexplicable reason, the sleeves differentiate in length by no more than a few inches, barely off-center. As he comes about, they trace faintly aged features, complementing grey hair and a superbly trimmed beard. The lone concrete point of contention is the eyes – they happen to bear a disconcertingly faded white.

He smiles broadly and joyfully at them.  
“Well, butter me knees and braise me at a medium to medium-high heat with a trickle of squeezed lemon, if it isn’t Azura’s pup! Come to pay old Sheo a visit? Or did you have a petition for Pelagius, mayhaps?  
If so, I must part with regrets. He’s out fishing! You shall have to return at a more practicable hour, say, oh, 3147.2 years from now. He should’ve limbered up nicely by then. Cheese?”  
He points at the matter strewn over the ground.

Jollain is kinda baffled and at a loss for words. She homes in on her girlfriend.  
“This…is the god of madness?”

“…I don’t know”, confesses Tay after a ponderous few seconds. “Suppose he is. Who else could’ve brought us out here like this? If nothing else, he’s shamelessly eccentric.”

“That’s a pretty generous definition.”

Maak-Veh crosses his arms and frowns suspiciously.  
“I still lack belief in the prospect of this being a so-called god. Probably another daedric minion.”

“I would advise to err on the side of caution nevertheless”, claims Vaziri. “The creatures of Oblivion are known for their arbitrary nature. This one more than most.”

Deity or simulation – whatever the case, the bosmer addresses him up front.  
“Don’t rightly know how you got my name, but I guess that’s just a perk of a daedric prince.”

“With such a myopic view, I wouldn’t be much of a god, now would I?”, suggests the self-proclaimed Prince.

“Got me there.  
Although, I’ll be the first to admit – sorta thought a big prestigious super lord like yourself would be…bigger. Azura’s statue was, anyway.”

“Ah, the good moon always had a penchant for muted flair and dense stone. But who needs rock when there’s ham to be slapped?  
If your impression of her was substantial, you should see what the others practice, like old Runes and Bal boy. Statues and effigies as colossal as mammoths! Highlights an inadequacy in other departments, doesn’t it, hmm?  
Now, I simply must know what all the fuss is about! One wonders what would bring a brazen hero to my third favorite vacation resort. Ah, third and a half, if you count the shard in the pit of dwemer guts below the sixteenth tier in Nirn’s bedrock, but it is locked in a semi-transdimensional state, so I tend to give it a pass, as you may understand. Not good for the toes. But don’t tell them, should you ever pull your cart in that direction. They get dreadfully cranky, you see.  
Oh, but the answer is so vividly forthcoming! You’re seeking the Wabbajack, no? It’s piqued your interest, without fail.”

“The Wabb…what?” She holds up her hand. “No, don’t tell me. Ain’t got a clue what that is to begin with, nor do I give a crap.  
Here’s the deal – I don’t care whether you’re Sheogorath or some two-bit cleaner at the bottom of a waste-covered hole in Oblivion. All we want is access to Ald Daedroth for some ashlanders. That’s it.” She nudges her head in the direction of the Ordinators.  
“Oh yeah, release those poor bastards while you’re at it.”

Whatever she said, it seems to have dissatisfied the Prince, who rolls his eyes.  
“Bah, you world-changers. It’s always up and about, fire and brimstone, running in endless hope-bereft spirals, swallow this and that - and in goes the spear. Don’t even stop for a cup of tea before you dive! That’s just downright unseemly. And discourteous! One day, you’ll fall over the wrong book and regret you never halted to gnaw on the peel. There’s juice on that bugger, you nitwit!”

Jollain sighs and rubs her nose, striving to stay calm and collected.  
“…can anyone make heads or tails of what this guy is babbling about?”

“Well, he does fit the profile of his assertion”, argues Vaziri.

Rather abruptly, Sheogorath snaps his fingers, letting the sound reverberate from him.  
“Ah, now I glean the glimmer. Should’ve expected as much – it’s about time for Ur to ring the bell, fall the gap, drink the firebloom, eh? Had to come sooner or later. Dagon will be merry and chipper, in so far as he goes, awash in vandalizing reverie. Azura hasn’t and won’t be one to forgive and desert. You do well to bear this in mind, hero. Unless you’re predisposed to damnation by soul-choking, that is!” He cackles.

“Ugh”, complains Jollain. “Could you skip to the part where you decide whether you wanna give us a hand or not?”

“It goes without saying that I’ll lend what is due and coveted, without a shadow of a doubt. Hmm. Maybe a little shadow, one for the dog.  
But why should I, hm? Can’t expect a reward without effort, can ya? A prize for a price. It’s just plain old rotten cheese if not! And I’ll only eat a roll of those on the last Fredas of the month.”

And so, her crusty exterior gives way for fragments of dismay. Making deals with daedra doesn’t sound like the most brilliant course of action. Aren’t there tales and legends across history of foolish adventurers making accords and then being plunged into Oblivion for their trust? Best be extra wary here.  
“…I mean, yeah, guess so, but what do we have that you can’t get anywhere else?”

“A mountainload, my fleshy friend! There are much which an exquisite player like your splendorous self can provide to quench a bored old divinities’ cravings. Lots of tidbits to enrich my lifestyle, Nirn-bound.  
What fun is there in gifts and presents anyway, without the games to precede it? If it is treasure and plunder and glory you pursue, then through the Wheel of Amok you must toil!”

“…the what?”

As the question is issued, Sheogorath promptly clutches his cane, uses it to rise and then leisurely saunters towards them. His voice tempers, but a deceptively amenable tone lingers.  
“Insanity – the very word instills the minds and hearts of mortals with fear and unnecessary quantities of aversion. They worry it will spread uncontrollably, that they’ll be infected and forever condemned into an existence of duality, of not living up to their personal extrapolation of their potential. Of losing all they are – nails, liver and gall bladder! Of flapping their weaselly tongues and wiggling their legs in perfectly hapless perpetuity. Of resting upon my ever-volatile bosom.”  
He starts slowly pacing near their location, but not too close.  
“But what you denigrate as dementia has endless conclusions, limitless opportunity and interpretations – chaos, genius, obliviousness, beyond perception, supernatural and blindness.  
The Wheel of Amok is life, it is time, it is the earth and the water, the air and the sunlight. It is you, little fledging immortal. And I will illustrate its contents anon.”

When next his fingers snap, without foretelling it, Sheogorath and Jollain disappear, simply pop out of existence.  
“W…what? Jollain?”, asks Tay, her panic rapidly mounting. “No! You give her back, you bastard! Jollain!”

But the response is only dust in the wind.


	38. Cursed by collateral (part 4)

There’s no flash, no eruption, no fanfare – for Jollain, the teleporting spell is nigh instantaneous. One second, she’s in this outlandishly constructed realm of someone’s fantasy. The next, she’s perched on a lone platform in the middle of a chasm. She had just opened her mouth to express a few words of contention, but now flinches out of sheer astonishment, not having been sufficiently braced for this staggering sight.

The area she’s resting on does appear as a pillar of some variety, being a few meters thick and positioned in the center of a huge gap – an aspect she discovers while looking out over the edge and then swiftly retreating. Blatantly too spacious to leap across, even with her honed dexterity. Beyond the edge of the plateau there is only blur, an impregnable mist of some sort. Her eyes can’t peer past it and despite boasting a fistful of spells, trying to dissolve it with lightning sounds like an ill-advised action in her head. Who knows what ramifications it might generate?

In lieu of this, she calls out.  
“Sheogorath! Or…whoever in Oblivion you are. Hey, you there or what?”

“Why, of course! A spectacle like this would not be one to miss out on!”, he responds unsurprisingly.

Sadly, as the mists disperse to reveal him, he shows up on the opposite end of the abyss, out of reach. She discerns the same eccentric older man as she was faced with previously, holding the cane in his hands as he struts, mildly amused and perhaps a little giddy.  
“If you think you’ve trapped me here, I won’t go down easy, shitbrain.” She puts on a brave face, but can’t ignore the innate apprehension.

“So jumpy, so skittish! I can’t blame one tiny ex-mortal for trudging the line of the skewered rabbit, but your terror is moot – if I sought your death or pain, you’d already be my next dinner. That is, unless it’s a slice in a grand celebration of rampant armaggedon! Violence has a tendency to be more appetizing and rewarding in sprees.”

His smug exterior makes her boil, but will throwing a fit really do her any good?  
“So where in Oblivion have you taken me? Or wherever this fucked up place is.”

“Your proclamation is mighty apt, for it’s indeed true – we’re in Oblivion. Of sorts, some would insist. Others might deem it a limbo, between realms, with a plethora of pathways across the infinite starring abyss.”

“…okay, could you like, be more specific? I don’t know what half of that means.”

He spreads his arms and his smile mimics this behavior.  
“I told you we would play a game, and so we shall! This is where the Wheel of Amok truly shines.”  
As his arms reach their full length, lights burst into existence to span the area. Eight of them manifest, each deriving from some form of tunnel, which she can’t determine the destination or contents of.  
“This is a location with extraordinary potential. And you should feel immensely honored! This grand chamber of mine has had a long tally of guests and participants, from Tingan the Dragondevourer to Lieroa the Sallow Bard and even Interim Emperor Markhim, in the Interregnum! Quite a salty fella, that one. And dreadfully somber. Kept yapping about his enemies and rivals around every turn he had to eliminate before they got to him. But then, if memory serves, it was what led to his downfall in the long run.”

“Great”, mutters Jollain.

“All have come, all have proudly thrusted their challenge and attained the superb and exclusive chance to prove their foresight and cunning! You have much to live up to, ‘Nerevarine’.  
At my word, the wheel will spin and the excitement shall commence!”

She studies them one by one, but without any details worth mentioning, she chooses to level her eyes on him instead.  
“I don’t get it. What does this have to do with the game?”

Mounting his hands once more on the cane, he slowly begins to pace, following the edge of the chasm.  
“Have you never desired to witness the truth? Or the past? Or another comprehension of reality?  
All prospects are at our fingertips here. The Wheel offers a cavalcade of candidates for a spectacle of the night. Or day, or lunch, or any time one has a craving for mayhem!”

Jollain sighs in irritation.  
“Okay, how does ‘never’ sound? My appetite doesn’t really include havoc. All I wanna do is go home.” She tracks his movement, regards his posture and the gleam in his gaze. There is no recourse.  
“But I guess that doesn’t matter…”

“A quick learner! A very astute trait in a competitor.”

She throws her hands in the air.  
“Fine. I’m ready to ingest the rules, or whatever. Don’t reckon this is your regular game of cards.”

“No, this would inarguably be more of a game of chance than dubious strategy.” He gestures to their surroundings with a sweeping hand. “Each of these tunnels before you represents an era of Tamriel’s long and sordid history. Or an iteration, you could claim. Every age has contained products of berserk and deranged actions, resulting in chaos. I have chosen a most entertaining compilation of them here – handle three, including whatever rears its head, and I will grant your appeal.  
And who knows? With a glamorous enough performance, I might even bestow the bonus of the Wabbajack!”

“…can I pass on that one? Like, preemptively? Because whatever that shit is, I seriously don’t want it near me.”  
One significant component that does trigger concern is what’s on display.  
“Uh, speaking of the choices…won’t you tell me what kind of dices I’m rolling here?”

“Hah! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, my squirming morsel. What sort of treat would I be putting forth, if you knew all the secrets ahead of time? This is the thrill of the contest!”

“…a fair one? Whatever. And how are these things supposed to spin anyway? They're like, rocks, right? Look pretty damn heavy. Doesn’t seem to me like-“  
As he claps his hands twice, the circle with the passageways launches a whirling process in high velocity, as if it was indeed a wheel. Jollain tries to follow their twisting with her vision, but it’s too fast.  
“…ugh, daedra. Why’d I even bother asking?”

“Make no mistake – this is your moment in the spotlight, moon girl. I shall pump the stopper and relax the wheel on your command, to establish your selection. Whichever gateway you will be presently pointed at, will be your first challenge. Brilliantly exhilarating, isn’t it?”

She steers a somewhat dismayed frown at him.  
“Oh yeah, sure. Totally the word I’d use and not, oh I dunno, ‘terrifying’.”  
Watching the speed of these flames, rushing past her so quickly that they’re no more than dazzling whirlwinds circling her, is making her a bit nauseous. She throws caution to the wind, more focused on shutting this nuisance down than the repercussions.  
“Stop!”, she exclaims at a random point.

The wheel decelerates at a gradual pace and in spite of not having a clue as to what they entail, she feels like she’s already off to a bad start, growing nervous right out the gate. Is Sheogorath a god who could be so callous as to set a direct trap, an explosion that goes off in her face?  
As it’s reined in, Sheogorath’s features burst into a delighted expression and utters, “Yes! Superlative! We shall turn the clock backwards, by a few centuries, in fact!”

“Turn…back? What do you-“

A bridge of rocks suddenly spawn to Jollain’s platform, from the entrance where she’s aligned. If only she had the opportunity to react, maybe she wouldn’t be so overwhelmed by what plays out next – out from the gateway gushes a stream of energy which hits Jollain pretty vigorously, inundating her wholly and full-on, almost pushing her over the edge of the pillar. Somehow, as by a miracle, she maintains her foothold. Or it’s what she presumes to begin with.

When she next unveils her eyes, it dawns on her how she’s nowhere close to the previous pit, but an entirely new area, much more fleshed out and decorated. Additionally, she’s outside, which breaks the mold. A light breeze encapsulates her and the blue sky flutters above. Somehow, she gets a homely vibe from the combo of a distant volcano, the enormous mushrooms and the structure of the buildings.

“This is Morrowind”, she mumbles. “But…no, wait. That’s not Vvardenfell. The Red Mountain wasn’t so tiny, last I checked.”

“Quite on the money for this one!”, she hears from Sheogorath’s disembodied and echoing voice. Her gaze darts around, but can spy no source.  
“They call this one Ash Mountain, on the mainland. Not very creative, I know, but the dunmer never were an imaginative or exuberant lot.”

Jollain doesn’t vocalize it, but the assertion does make her scowl. On the other hand, she has never pondered the notion of visiting the south of this nation, nor that anyone would give her a supposed glimpse of it, real or not. This is a ticket to learning which actually tempts her. But this is a vision pertaining to the daedric lord of madness. Shouldn’t there be a catch?

In the runup to a question leaving her throat, she picks up an outraged voice from behind.  
“There she is! Thought you could escape our grasp, did you? Not after all the heinous things you’ve done.”

She blinks bemusedly and flips around, coming face to face with a group in crude, coarse clothes that resemble patterns she’s perceived in prior months. She glances over her shoulder, to infer that there can be no other target for their condemnations.  
“Erm, aren’t you guys ashlanders?”

She can distinguish six of them, presumably four men and two women. One of the former addresses his comrades, while pointing at Jollain.  
“Listen to this cur – now she’s pretending as if she has never met us before?”

“Despicable House scum”, blurts one of the women and spits on the ground. “You’ll pay for this! For all your transgressions!”

Now more stunned than ever, Jollain measures them up curtly, but doesn’t recognize a single one.  
“What are you prattling about? I’ve done nothing to you.”

“Is that what you call killing an Ashkhan? ‘Nothing’?!”

“You are more abhorrent than we initially suspected!”, bellows a third.

Jollain tries to recall, to beckon any images of the event they describe.  
“I don’t-…what Ashkhan?”

“Chodala, you heathen!”

“Chodala?” She mentally circles back, allows what transpired in the Cavern to imbue her thoughts. “What? But he’s-…then you guys must be…“

“He was the Nerevarine, the chosen of Azura, but you murdered him in cold blood! He was meant to elevate us to greatness, free Morrowind from the oppression of the false gods! And now, we are cast out from the tribe for granting him support.”

The first reenters the conversation.  
“Don’t waste your breath on her! Let us exterminate the vermin!”

The bosmer retreats from this space posthaste, but she won’t give up hope.  
“Hey, let’s talk about this! You can’t just smash me for no reason! I didn’t do anything to Chodala, I swear!”

In return, they have nothing to bequeath but their weapons. They see her as the source of their misfortune and all they crave is her death. More of Chodala’s faithful crawl out of the shadows, coming at her ten to one. Even with Jollain’s phenomenal proficiency, those are some sour odds.  
Being overrun not just physically, but mentally, she tries to lift her blades to block them off and defend herself from every swing, but there are a lot of them. Too many. In the end, the futility settles in and it does so with utmost torment.

In a weak moment, they entrap her and sneak up from behind. Jollain is so unprepared for the incident that she gasps in absolute shock and overpowering agony as a sword is burrowed into her lower back. She has experienced the sensation of being impaled in prior altercations, but somehow, this is multiplied by ten times, making her groggy and wobbly. Her body earns a jolt running into its core and nowhere in her personal history has she seemed so close to the ultimate end and eternal rest.

And in the blink of an eye, poof – as rapidly as it went down, it vanishes. She has been recalled to the Wheel of Amok’s center platform, though the crazy ride she just endured has not eluded her. Out of pure mental exhaustion, she collapses to her knees. She is left to her recovery for a minute or two, with nothing but her inhales and exhales resounding through the empty darkness. After having recuperated to a slight degree, she raises her head to see him standing there still.

“What…in all the hells of Oblivion was that about? Who were those people? And why were they so dead set on lopping off my head?”

“If you are eager to allude that I beguiled you, do not fret – no trickery was encompassed in this test. As I previously stated – this was a section of yore, of days gone by. The era was the Second, the age of your ancestor, of a hero who once nipped a disaster in the bud, by eliminating an old failed Incarnate.”

With such transparent clues, it’s a no-brainer for Jollain to put two and two together, remember the tales from the night lake and the goddess’ words.  
“Vyraine…”

“The Vestige had a myriad of pros and cons, and certainly people who weren’t keen on getting squashed in her domineering advance!”

If what he’s saying deserves any credibility, then…what if Vyraine postponed the coming of the Nerevarine? What if Jollain would never have had to suffer all these trials and terrors, if Chodala had ascended instead? What if-  
No. What is she thinking? There was no other way, no forked avenue. Azura more or less indicated as much herself. Not in the cavern, but with the prophecy – the Blight wasn’t even a factor in that old Ashkhan’s generation. The time of the Nerevarine is now and she is the one who has reached the furthest. She has to ensure she doesn’t get roped in with the rest. Falling into a trap engineered by the god of madness would definitely be a poetic demise, though.

On moderately unsteady legs, Jollain rises and wipes some sweat off her brow.  
“Was that satisfactory enough to ‘solve’ the problem?”

Sheogorath grimaces with minor discontent.  
“You did dispense the bloodthirsty savages what they coveted, so you pass. But no bonus points for poise! Your stance was awful. And no final grandstanding words? For shame. Every true hero would!”

“…what the fuck ever. I _died_. Could you give me a break?”

Once more, the god in the room starts to meander.  
“A clumsy maneuver you bumbled into. Wasn’t at all what I would’ve done in your station. But then again, I don’t have a fondness for sharpened steel in my guts!” He laughs cheerfully.

Eclipsing her earlier sentiments, Jollain dispatches a fiery glare at him.  
“…if I can find some road to cross this canyon and run my blades through your skull, I will.”

His laugh expands to a cackle.  
“And that’s the spirit, lass!” Instantly, he pivots into a sober mood.  
“Stage number one has fully wrapped up, I trust. It would be prudent to opine how we’re due for a palate-cleanser. Haskill! Chop chop!”

At his behest, it soars into a torrent of radiance and obscured fallacies, making Jollain’s head spin. But as merely one exit is obtainable, to play into the machinations of Sheogorath, she straightens her posture and abides. This honestly is a waking nightmare.  
“Stop”, she calls midbreath, with less tenacity than the last rotation.

Once it halts, Sheogorath’s visage is approximately as elated as he was at the first result.  
“Extraordinary! You must have a lucky bone concealed in all that excessive flesh! You have fallen into a future phase now, dear moony and it shall be a most remarkable trip for you.”

“The future? What fut-“

The same procedure repeats so briskly that Jollain hardly has time to buckle down. The gust sweeps around her and as she opens her eyes here, they disclose a harrowing view which she could’ve never forecasted.  
She’s doubtlessly back on Vvardenfell, but the landscape has transformed. Not merely corroded, but utterly and comprehensively decimated.

The Red Mountain is the main landmark which draws the bulk of her attention, but everything else is blackened, a seared desert of ash.  
From the get-go, she thinks this has to be a mistake and she’s landed in some remote corner of the Ashlands. Where else would this bounty of the black stuff be located? But looking behind her, the picture which the world paints is dreary.

Nothing save ash, rock and fumes spew from the span of the island, all the way to the edge of the Inner Sea. The smoke billowing from the top of the volcano is like a haunting beacon, traces of a culprit, punctuating the retort which won’t be enumerated with words. This is…harrowing, nigh physically painful. What has transpired here? What devastation erupted in order for this ruin to sweep the land?  
Refusing to trust her eyesight, she decides to scout the territory, bailing from this spot to find out precisely what it entails. There has to be someone alive somewhere on this rock.

An unknown chunk of time elapses, until she bumps into a small pack of bizarre dunmer. Their surface appearances on their own are not abnormal, but their getups and conducts are sincerely out of place.  
Each is unhealthily thin and minimally dressed, borderline naked, except for strings of bones that hang over a few choice section. At this second, they’re engaged in a dance, for lack of a better term, circling some manner of poles. On the rods are impaled and severed heads of individuals that are only temporarily foreign, until the haze in her mind splits.

It can be no other group of entities than the Tribunal – Vivec, Almalexia and Sotha Sil. Deep inside, she yearns to ignore the truth. Would that she could, but she gets a handle on it too deftly. The bones dangling from the dunmer belong to the gods, false or not.  
Not much time is necessary for the dunmer to suss out her presence, as they examine her approach.  
“N-Nerevarine?”, one of them asks. “It…it is you, isn’t it?”

Jollain wavers, as she gets a flashback from what befell her in the last vision.  
“Um…yes? I mean, if that’s okay with-“

Simultaneously, they all drop to their knees and bow their heads.  
“Please, forgive us! We repent!”

Okay, this was not the type of response she had expected. In fact, it’s the reverse of what the last one demonstrated for her. That said, she can’t construe the nature of their pleas.  
“Hold on – forgive you? For what?”

They forge ahead with their supplications.  
“We beg of you, accept our honest and humblest apologies! We…we are not sure what we committed to invoke your ire. What can we do for you, to make this right? How can we please you?”

She will confess that their servile and fearful mannerism is unnerving her. She has never been one to ask for respect in such acute capacity, let alone obedience. She stumbles on her words and shrugs ambivalently.  
“I…I don’t know what to say. All I want is an explanation. What…happened here?”

Her question gets a delayed answer, as it makes the poor souls addled.  
“You…are not aware?”

“I mean, no. Should I be?”

She can now spot how a few of them are shivering a tad. Is it because of her or their shortage of clothes? They glance at one another, then resume their centering on her.  
“But…this is a product of your verdicts, oh moon-and-star.”

Her eyes rush back and forth.  
“…what? Mine?”

“On the heels of the false gods perishing at your hand, Morrowind was poised to be subject to a new morning, a clean slate. But everything the Tribunal ever devised fell apart. In its wake, you were nowhere to be found. Procedurally, the land crumbled and our people were destitute.”

Immediately, Jollain gasps and takes a small instinctive step back, her expression and frame of mind going distraught. She’s shaken to the core by this unearthing. She attempts to ransack her mind for encouragements, but it’s lacking.  
“Crumbled? But that’s…” Hollow sentiments delve their way into her chest, as despair finds fertile soil.

Within a second or two passing, she differentiates a peculiar fabric in the ashen earth, which sticks out. Sidling past the begging elves, she strides closer and detects an inherent desire to dig.  
Her hands drill into the ground and with increasing frenzy, she tosses the hardened soil away. Beneath its cracked shell, she uncovers scales. She frantically doubles her rate, a worried pulse extending over her body.

And there, she unravels what’s what, the testament to this egregious reality – Maak-Veh’s dead, lifeless and still body, having fallen in tandem with Vvardenfell. After an instant of shock, she lets out an instinctive, visceral scream. She withdraws with haste, receiving an automatic gut reaction to flee from here as far as she can. This is a nightmare, a true hellish pit. Nothing of this can-

Once she blinks, she has reversed to the Wheel again. Not unlike the last condition she was submerged in, it’s gone so quickly that she barely has an opportunity to adapt.  
“And that’s it!”, she overhears Sheogorath declaring. “Lesson learned and the pearl polished. Shame about the isle, but nothing lasts forever.”

Jollain remains disjointed by the wreckage, adrenaline high and rhythmically panting. She is shivering to a greater extent and feels like her heart beats at a speed beyond her knowledge. A catastrophe she never, not in all her life, had wished to be exposed to.  
Nevertheless, she has to grasp the real deal.  
“Tell me, does that…” She swallows and a hand rises to wipe her mouth. “…have any basis in the authentic future or was it simply another messed up forgery in that sick head of yours?”

“Authentic, sane, complete – all concepts made up by mortals for their faulty insight of the world.”

She rises to her feet, smoldering.  
“ _Cut it the fuck out!_ Was it real or not?!” Her voice exudes a blend of rage and desperation.

Conversely, Sheogorath is still as merry as ever.  
“It is always in flux. Who can say?  
Now then, I request your agreement for one final spin! The grand finale, if you will! Are you sufficiently prepared for its revelation? If not, I do believe you will come out the other end with a measure of distaste.”

Despite suspecting that the more truthful aftereffect will make her psychologically exhausted and drained, she’s out of options.  
“Yeah…yeah, whatever you say. Do it.”

And so, the wheel churns, in ever-heightening speed. She had kinda hoped repeated displays would afford her deeper clarity, but there’s no luck. It’s still as inscrutable as in preceding stages.  
The final rumble makes Sheogorath equally joyous as the previous two.  
“Ooh, how curious! We will get a marvelous chance to experience the revised present!”

Jollain doesn’t follow, mentally.  
“…what? The present? Uh, but isn’t that…now?”

Shouldn’ve realized that questions will not be replied to with words, but actions. Or transportations might be a better definition, for as she reopens her eyes after the flash, she surveys a room of Morrowind-esque design . A much less sprawling landscape than the earlier two, then.  
It proves to be a building she’s unfamiliar with, but the first real discovery she reaps, occurs as she attempts to move. She’s unable to, for her arms are chained in opposing directions and her legs are tied together.

In her vicinity, she perceives far more dunmer than in the past two events and they’re all staring right at her. Takes her a moment until she can nail down their affiliations – the Camonna Tong. So, she’s in some form of present at least, big time. A year adjacent to her own, perhaps? Not an optimal condition, exactly, but she’s unaware of the context. She has to be patient and wait for what this fantasy has to relay.

Divorcing himself from the rest, strides one specific person that she gets a bead on in a snap.  
“…Areval?”, she asks in a mildly bewildered vein, though not aghast. She’s still convinced that this is no more than a surreal image, albeit unpleasantly tangible.

In response, he spits on the floor and then at her, making the dream a whole lot more tactile, as she can sense it.  
“All of this is your fault, n’wah. Every speck of it. You instigated what will unfold and whatever goes down, keep that in mind.”

She has caught him during wrathful episodes before, but here, it sounds like his blood is downright boiling and he’s on the edge of exploding.  
“…what are you on about?”

“I told you to desist, but as usual, you pay no mind to others, as self-absorbed as you’re inclined to be. Punishment was inevitable. It shouldn’t have come to this, but it’s the sole way you’ll understand.”

Having sustained one ugly death thus far, Jollain has no stomach for a second, especially in front of this crowd; real or not. She tugs at her restraints, but comes to the conclusion it would be impossible for her to tear them away using raw strength.  
“Oh boy. This’ll be…rough.”

Regrettably, the truth of this calamity is beyond abysmal and sends tremors down her spine. Areval walks out of view, only to return by dragging a beaten and bruised Tayerise.  
If the bosmer had been formerly shocked, this visual imbues her with an impulse as if someone struck her with lightning. Her girlfriend, the woman she loves more than any other being on this world, is ravaged. She is both malnourished and abused, adorned in nothing but rags and her hair had someone literally tear it off, with only strips remaining. The warrior does not even have energy surplus to struggle, so taxed and practically apathetic to her own plight, rendered on the brink of insensitivity.

“Tay, no!”, she yells. She viciously and hopelessly endeavor to wrest the chains out of their sockets, but they don’t budge an inch. “Let her go, Areval!”

“I’m not in the habit of kinslaying and this was not my will…but you’ve forced our hand. Would that you had listened to me from the advent.”

“Areval, please! Release her! Take me instead.”

His glare slackens, but not out of approval. His features grow dead, vacant, uncaring.  
“No”, he decrees in a monotone voice. “Not yet. You are hard of hearing and wits, which is why we must make it plain for you. There is no punishment which merits any impact, aside from this.  
My sister is contaminated, by your filthy touch and influence. To purify not merely Camonna and my family, but the dunmer’s integrity, everything you have affected must be expunged.”

“No! Areval, come to your senses! I beg you, don’t! Anything but this!”, she beseeches, but all of it goes disregarded.

Without gravitas or ceremony, the brother idly and agonizingly slits his sister’s throat in a brutal fashion and then unceremoniously dumps her body on the ground.  
A black viscous liquid trickles out from her wound, as she gazes glassy eyed at her lover. A storm materializes in Jolllain’s consciousness, a torrent of fury unlike any she has ever conjured. She nearly roars and tries to move heaven and earth in order to get ahold of him and at long last-

Yet again, she’s propelled into reality and whacked onto the podium. Being more beat down than in any part of her comparatively brief life, she cracks under the pressure. Her head throbs with a sorrow-filled cadence and her hands both quiver and tingle. Tears stream down her cheeks, which she can’t be bothered to wipe away.  
Checking his feedback to this tragedy, he spares her simply an indifferent, slightly maligned smile.

Jollain’s subsequent voice is delicate and fluctuating.  
“…you’re evil. A disgusting, deranged, goddamned…” She foregoes further insults by swallowing and hugging herself.

“You may call me all you wish, but in the end, it is echoed in your soul as well. Every facet of the scenes you’ve attended hail from your heart. Every cause has an effect, throughout history. The road you ardently travel is one of jagged teeth and stifled air. Many destinations culminate to the closing gate and I divulged but a few, to broaden your samples.”

Suddenly, it sinks in – this is all a ploy, a duplicitous misleading.  
“H…hang on”, she utter in a raspy tone. “Were you…stalling here from the very beginning? Ready to take me off the beaten path? Divines…shit. Now I get why everyone names you the House of Troubles.”

Sheogorath’s smile widens slyly and he raises a finger.  
“Ah, but trouble can guide the way to wisdom and bliss. It all hinges on your preferred interpretation of the phrase.”

Silence ensue, barring Jollain’s strained and onerous breaths. It’s as though the Red Mountain in full has dropped on her head and shattered her spirit. She’s fatigued, both within and without. Nonetheless, she clenches her fist and keeps it together.  
“I won’t…surrender. I’ll follow through, no matter what. This road may be the only one to happiness and it’s all I got to rely on, disaster or no.”

Her unyielding essence brightens his day and Sheogorath laughs and applauds in thrill.  
“This is by no stretch the beauty of the Nirn-bound – you view the hysterical error, the abyss to lose your sanity, but in favor of shying away, you leap into the teetering streams! Absolutely insanely glorious! Stupendously fatalistic! I like you, firebrand. We should split a cheese next time around.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“As to the petition, I will happily grant it. My followers shall leave the ruin holistically and won’t revisit for a long while yet. In another life, Little Moon. Or another personality!” He wheezes in glee and slaps his knee.

Entirely impromptu, she’s teleported to the outside of Ald Daedroth, noting how she’s next to the others, who are dumbfounded at the sight. Tay immediately detects the bosmer and kneels.  
“Jollain! Oh thank goodness you’re alive! You simply…vanished and we had no idea where you-“

To her surprise, her girlfriend is crying as she plunges herself into Tay’s arms and clings to her tightly.  
“Don’t…don’t let me go...”, she whimpers.

Tay is laden with confusion and questions, but she clutches Jollain gingerly regardless.  
“Never will.”


	39. Cursed by collateral (part 5)

The midday sun peaks as it journeys to the center of the blue-grey sky, and with it is a symbolically linked fresh wind, effervescently disseminating its arms in flux. The latter of these conceits may be cold due to the geographical location, but it washes the formerly fetid air and purifies it of the sullen nature which it had previously possessed in scores.

As a few days since the incident of Ald Daedroth have elapsed, Ahemmusa has by now been alerted, reassured and relocated to the interior of the ruin, with the last shards of belongings and equipment being loaded off the boat this instant.  
The tribe was caught fully off-guard by the proclamation and initially refused to believe it was factual. The only tenable way to persuade them of reality and quell their reservations was to escort the Wise Woman.

Though she had harbored reluctance, Sinnammu had to acknowledge her blunder, for traversing the halls of the obsolete facility had her exposed to the irrevocable truth of their endeavors. By some miraculous fluke, they had evicted the zealots, leaving not a trace of the eccentric machinations.  
With the inspection finished, they returned and granted the tribe the uplifting news. Almost straight away, packing had commenced and the ashlanders prepared themselves for the short exodus, setting course for the island.

It’s within the premises of the ruin that they can at present be found, still hauling and loading in their possessions from the boats into the gateway.  
The team which ‘cleansed’ the ancient site in the first place, have all elected to dwell on the outside, being more than a little disenchanted with what it has to pose for them. They’ve seen all they believe would be required, from their perspectives.

With the others preoccupied with means and arrangements for their inevitable departure, it’s Tay who voted to have words with Sinnammu, who in turn has grown openly affectionate in the wake of the daedra being foiled of their prize. Amnet has naturally tagged along, ever the faithful companion and assistant.  
“I give thanks to you, Tayerise, daughter of Falsabit, for all that you and your stalwart friends have done for the Ahemmusa. I never could have foreseen this future, that a hero of legend would surface from the depths of our dreams and guide us to salvation. This will not soon be forgotten, and we owe each of you a debt of gratitude.”

Tay cordially bows her head.  
“No reward or compensation is needed”, she affirms. “Besides your solemn vow that you’ll bestow Jollain with the agreed upon formalities, that is.”

“I would never go back on an oath I have sworn – Jollain shall have the blessing of the Ahemmusa on the morrow, after our tribe has accustomed itself to our new lodgings.”  
The Wise Woman is caressing Amnet’s head as she professes this, smiling at his friendly squeaks. She hands him a snack, a piece of dried fruit, which he munches on with zest. Soon after, she rises.  
“I have discerned that you hold onto the traditions of our tribe. I won’t discourage these practices, should it be your wish to prolong them.” Sinnammu then extends a hand.  
“But you are also welcome to stay with us. There is a place for you here, if your desire allows it. It’s not as if anyone can invoke old laws now, given your status as saviors and our Ashkhan being long lost.”

Tay displays a smile in exchange.  
“From the bottom of my heart and soul, I thank you for the generosity, Wise Woman, but I have to decline. I’m still committed to Jollain’s quest and must linger at her side. Every inch of my being demands that I carry on until we see the light at the end of this trail. Jollain won’t make it otherwise and I won’t accept the world taking her from me.”

Despite a hint of dissatisfaction, Sinnammu mirrors the expression.  
“The Nerevarine is fortunate to have someone as loyal as you.”

“And I her.”

There’s a clear glint in Sinnammu’s gaze, as if her faculties have parsed the gist.  
“Ah. Then I would be misguided to intervene.  
You are a credit to your family, Tayerise. All of them should be proud of what you achieved here, as well as the sweat and blood you pour into your passions.  
Whatever the case and regardless of how this pans out, the Ahemmusa shall not forget our debt. Relay this to your companions and that they may view us as resolute allies. Our destinies are intertwined.”  
She gradually begins to shift, back to the ruin.  
“I must go, but I will resume this meeting, as promised. Next time you speak with your family, give my regards and affection – Falsabit, Uryne and little Areval, one and all.”

A fleeting and sparse smile rears on Tay’s lips.  
“Areval is no longer so little. He can sometimes be like…a jar of unfermented netch jelly.”

Sinnammu is brought to silence per those words, before raising a nonplussed eyebrow.  
“Is there…anything amiss?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Wise Woman. I will simply have to try and bend his ear, hope he stays receptive.”

Tay peels out before long and goes on a search for said friends. Reaching the beach of the isle, for starters, Tay discovers Vaziri sitting apart from Maak-Veh and Jollain, who are situated by the water, conversing of an unknown subject.  
In good time, Tay nears and overhears the seriousness of the topic, though out of context, but it’s evident that Maak expresses puzzlement.

“Wait, Jollain…you have to clarify your intent. What are you trying to tell me?”

Jollain strikes Tay as moderately frustrated, coupled with transparent signs of distress.  
“Just that, like…after this is all said and done, it might be…rational to leave Vvardenfell. Well, banking on that we remain alive in the last phase. Which, in my case, I admit is looking pretty dim…”

“Leave Vvardenfell?”, Maak asks incredulously. “Elaborate.”

“I…I can’t explain it. I just got this feeling how the fallout of the Tribunal’s crumbling could be a pretty sticky mess. You ought not to get involved – not the least as you’re argonian.”

Maak proves none too pleased with this assertion.  
“And this is sufficient cause, in your mind, to abandon everything?” He shakes his head with stern determination. “I won’t be deterred. I swore an oath to the Blades and furthermore, gave Caius my word. I have to see this scenario through, past whatever may come.”

Jollain groans exasperatedly and rubs her forehead.  
“Oh yeah, because those tight-lips do so much for us, huh? The Blades pulled our boss and bunch of agents out right ahead of this whole clusterfuck escalating. How’s the loyalty spiel treating ya with that on your map?”

There had been traces of a frown earlier, but the one he depicts now festers.  
“We are following orders, Jollain, which also apply here. And need I remind you that if it were not for the Emperor, you wouldn’t even be here to begin with?”

“No, you don’t, cuz I’m not senile and if it weren’t for mister big-crown, I would’ve still floated in the capital, probably living it up by now.”

“In prison?”

Jollain gasps in feigned offense and points at him.  
“Hey! I…could’ve had a moldy box in a corner somewhere.”

Finally, Tay interferes.  
“Uh, is everything okay between you two? Sounds like it’s getting heated.”

Maak and Jollain stare at one another for a protracted moment, prior to both of them reaching an accord, shaking it off and bowing out for now.  
“Yeah…we’re alright.”  
Jollain trains her eyes in favor of her girlfriend. She infers on a separate topic.  
“Ahemmusa gonna land on their feet, you reckon?”

“Yes, sure, counting on it. Although Sinnammu passes her gratitude along, as she recognizes what we’re owed from the tribe.”

“Glad to hear it; though, not like we’re gonna requisition mountains of gold and riches from ‘em or anything.  
I half wanna petition a meal or two, but…I have a hunch that their stocks aren’t exactly massive right about now.”

“That does bear a slim chance of being true. And it is not as if we’re in dire need of supplies anyhow. We yet have fairly decent stores.”

“Mm. Nothing super fresh, though.”

In spite of the positive tidings, Jollain retains a veil of agonizing over something. It is enough to urge Tay to wander into a more intimate standing.  
“What’s troubling you, dear? And don’t say ‘nothing’. Your eyes reveal that everything isn’t as it should.”

The bosmer had hardly had the opportunity to open her mouth, let alone mull over a suitable excuse. Then again, maybe pursuing one would be fruitless. She sighs lightly.  
“Could we…take a walk together?”

Tay inclines her head eagerly.  
“Absolutely, anytime.”

“Maak, stick with Vaziri. We’re only gonna…stretch our legs for a while.”

The Spymaster doesn’t emit sensations of being calmed, but he doesn’t contest it either.  
“Very well. Don’t stray too far.”

“No worries, we’ll stick to the perimeter. It’s an island, after all.”

The two women dwell in silence for a couple of minutes, but as they stroll on the bounds of the beach, the cryptic cadence of the Sea of Ghosts reverberating around them, all is not well. Tay is cognizant of how Jollain remarkably enough remains slightly shaken. The dunmer maintains the narrow distance between them, offering a hand which Jollain takes without question. Tay squeezes it and tilts her head down.

“Jollain, I won’t claim with uncontested certainty that I can read you like an open book, but there is obviously something wrong. Did anything happen during my absence?”

“Absence? Oh, you mean just now? No, that has nothing to do with it.”

“Then what? Talk to me, darling. I can’t be of assistance if you enable this rift to sprout in the middle.”

Another several seconds slides by, but there isn’t any tangible progress. It’s not as if Jollain cultivates a candid attitude in all her endeavors or lifestyle choices, and Tay wouldn’t press her to disclose every single sliver of private information, but in cases like now and in this highly unique quest, a modicum of trust would definitely be the wisest decision.  
In the end, the bosmer does apparently arrive at this same verdict, for she shakes her head as she forfeits.

Following this, her voice is no louder than a whisper.  
“Don’t go where I can’t reach, Tay…”

Tay’s perplexed state endures in the face of this nigh beseeching statement.  
“What? I…go where?”

“You know, like…into danger.”

“What danger? Where is this originating from? Sheogorath? What did he show you? Did he foretell some type of catastrophe?”

Her girlfriend exhales ponderously, her mood not improving by laying the truth bare. She leans against Tay, seeking solace.  
“I don’t wish to chat about it. By and large, what he took me through was…pretty awful. That guy’s got his head twisted.”

“I can believe it. They don’t call him one of the-“

“I know what you’re getting at”, Jollain interrupts,” and yeah, I told him the same thing.”

Tay blinks, a little stumped.  
“…oh. Haven’t lost your bold touch, all things considered.”

“Whatever the case or the facts are, I’m getting that inkling of…possibly screwing everything up again. But what if I was totally off-center in terms of the costs? I’m afraid it’ll spill out over the rest of the team, you in particular. It’s just that…I can’t live with the thought of this.”

It goes without saying that Jollain isn’t making light of this situation, though Tay doesn’t construe what could’ve spurred such fear and misery.  
“Once more, I’m unsure where this stems from, but it sounds too dismal to me. You shouldn’t underestimate our capabilities to weather the burdens ahead of us. We can surpass them, with sufficient willpower and ingenuity.”

Jollain shuts her eyes in a frustrated manner, though predominantly at herself.  
“No, you misunderstand. Not trying to hint that I’ve lost all confidence in my friends, nor am I gonna abandon what we’ve achieved or our mission at the climax.  
My point is, I fear there’ll be consequences connected to the end, more so than I first suspected. I mean, gods or not, the Tribunal’s still rocking god-like powers. And for all intents and purposes, they rebuilt this land from scratch, right? What becomes of it if we mangle ‘em all? Will everything be better or…merely upend the entire ass world?”

Thankfully, Thariss does not hesitate. Instead, she wraps her arms tenderly around Jollain, pulls her in and by a reprieving attempt, plants her lips on her lover’s. Once granted the chance, she speaks her mind, though quietly.  
“I uphold what we’ve already cemented – I’m the scabbard to your sword and together, we are whole. Without, we are broken. Fate may test us, but I’m staying put.”

Jollain listens keenly to ever word and enunciation, and for better or worse, notwithstanding all of what she saw, she senses warmth arising in her chest.  
“Heh. Where’d you pick up that kind of goofy poetry, huh?”

“Nowhere. I’m simply a natural romantic.”

The bosmer smirks and slides a hand down to her own hip.  
“Really now? Where was all that romance expertise when we first hung out, then? Not exactly the suavest chick I’ve ever dated.”

“I…maturate slowly.”


	40. Blood bargain (part 1)

Upon taking their leave from the new Ahemmusa refuge, following the blessing of their Wise Woman and the pledge that the tribe shall honor their sector of the prophecy to come clashing with the forces of Dagoth Ur, in spite of their steadily dwindling numbers, the Nerevarine and her band went south.  
Next on the docket, by Tay’s estimates, was to communicate and potentially aid the Zainab tribe in whatever capacity which their lifestyles dictate, with respect to outlanders.

On the way, Tayerise had very little to recount about the Zainab, having never personally engaged with them or their leader, but by her father’s input from years past, this tribe was always more comparatively settled and prosperous, going so far as to institute consistent trade with villages and submerge into mines to subtract minerals with which to do business. But this outlines no more than the fundamentals of the tribe, their shallowest philosophy. She couldn’t speak for the leader’s principles, drive, ideology or what developments they’ve withstood in the past two decades.

Jollain, Maak-Veh and Vaziri haven’t treated this preliminary assessment with full on unease or contempt, for they are all unified in the sentiment that the excursion so far has been energizing in a way, fueling their steps. The Grazelands have their faults to be sure, and the safety options in this open landscape of fields is tenuous on the best of days, but if nothing else, they have lots of edible flora, occasional freshwater springs and sporadic windows to barter with locals. A reprieve from the Ashlands oppressive clutch, which, granted, does yet maintain traces of its shadow in visible range.

The camp they sniff for is located several miles northwest of the Telvanni capital Sadrith Mora, but also a couple east of the Ashlands – approximately the same distance to mage central as to the former Ahemmusa site.  
The architecture of the yurts and the configurations of the nest corresponds to the other ashlander settlements, though this one is larger in scope and far better graphically guarded. The travelling unit get a handle on the guards stationed outside way before passing into their borders. This is the first immediate separation from the northeastern tribe.

Upon nearing the line, one of the guards raises his hand, but his weapon remains lowered.  
“Halt”, he says placidly. “You’ve entered the grounds of the Zainab tribe, outlanders. Who goes there?”

Jollain glances at her comrades, who motions back at her.  
“You’ve tackled these encounters with such civility in the past”, expresses Vaziri. “Would not want to impair your streak.”

“Ha ha”, she responds in unamused fashion. “Very funny. I’m the foretold hero here – when are you gonna get me a herald, huh?”

Maak-Veh diverts his face elsewhere.  
“Don’t look at me.”

With only one lane to entry, Jollain clears her throat and chuckles nervously.  
“Uh, hail there, mighty and proud warrior! I guess…  
I’m the Nerevarine. You know, the girl from the prophecies, the legends, the not-so-flattering rumors. All that jazz. I mean, I suppose the tale technically mentions a guy, but…ancient stories often drop the ball on the bits and pieces. Trust me.”

The guards have misgivings, to say the least. The look in their eyes spell out the fact that they view her as a bit demented.  
“…really? You’re the chosen of Azura?”

“Yup, I’m the real deal! Got the ring, the tattoos, the whole shebang. Me and my followers here-“

“Allies”, Vaziri interrupts.

“…yeah, that. We’re looking for a means to acquire your…esteemed tribe’s blessing, as prophesized in the Seven Trials. Uh, you know, the part revolving around being tagged as the Nerevarine by the ashlanders.”

The guard gives the impression of being a little nonplussed, but more importantly, no impulse to grill them either.  
“Hey, mate, we don’t know nothing about prophecies – just here to guard the camp. You’ll want to speak with our Ashkhan for the ins and outs. Let me take you to his yurt”, he announces, prior to veering back to the tents.

The group is moderately astonished.  
“Whoa. Wait, seriously? No trials or rites or…death threats or whatever?”

“Nope. Why’d we ever do that?”

Jollain beams, amazement written all over her face.  
“Hah, okay. That was quick.”

“Deceptively so…”, mutters Maak.

“Well, let’s not be picky. These people wanna welcome us, I say we enable it.”

The settlement here is filled with tons of dunmer of all sizes and ages, and as hinted from the exterior, they perform a wide variety of functions and jobs too. Besides being unexpectedly numerous, another element that the group evaluates is the lack of interest. In the midst of the Ahemmusa or Urshilaku, they were often the epicenter of attention, but this does not translate to the Zainab, who proceed with their daily tasks unhindered. For Jollain, it’s actually rather refreshing.

The guard that they pass into the large encampment with clues them in on a few particulars.  
“Our Ashkhan doesn’t stand much on ceremony. Prefers to converse with notable newcomers face to face.”

“A candid man, eh? Appreciate that. No bullshit or anything.”

Tay looks at Jollain both skeptically and tenuously hurt.  
“I wouldn’t characterize our traditions as ‘bullshit’…”

Jollain breathes out from her nose and squeezes Tay’s arm.  
“C’mon cutie, you know that’s not what I said.”

The team’s spotlight at the moment is not purely aimed at the straight approach of the Ashkhan, but the fact that they’re permitted to enter his yurt too, without thinking twice. The guards couldn’t have been in there to speak with him for more than half a minute.  
Once they enter his abode, they glean a taste of why – he is not your average ashlander. His aesthetic presentation and outfit is far less routine, possibly going to the depth where they can say he doesn’t carry the semblance of an Ashkhan whatsoever.  
A row of candles are lit on a couple of sections and a scent permeates the interior, a pleasant one. Perfume of some kind? That would be remarkable.

The apparel he’s draped in elicits more equivalence to the style they might trace to Sadrith Mora or some other Great House turf, than among ashlanders; all the way to and including fine mulberry colored robes, a silver sash and a few traces of jewelry, such as two rings, a necklace and one bracelet. Whether financial compensation or not was granted in exchange is wholly unclear.

Whatever the case, the man seems to be in at least decent health too. He’s older than Tay, but not ancient. His blood red eyes are attentive, his shoulder length black hair flows in outstanding condition, his beard is cleanly shaved except around his mouth and he has a fine physique too – however, distinctly not the bulky form of a warrior. Tay’s build is more hulking. The only contention is his slightly pale grey skin, but not to any disturbingly unhealthy extents. He flashes a peculiar smile on their ingress, though it’s hard to discern why.

“Welcome outlanders”, he says in an amenable tone, even if there is a hint of an ego. “I’m Kaushad, Ashkhan of the Zainab. Come inside, have a seat, get comfortable.” He gestures at some mugs standing on a short wooden table. “Prepared some sujamma for each, if you have a taste for it.”

Jollain’s eyes sparkles with approval.  
“Ooh. Don’t mind if I do.” She plonks herself on a cushion and grabs her mug, while the rest are a tad more guarded.

Sizing him up, Jollain takes note that Kaushad is still of a moderately more senior age than the younger fighters of his tribe, but he holds the quality of a smarmy scoundrel type that she’s met in her own corners of Tamriel, rather than the tribes.  
“So, my guards informed me you’re wanderers, rovers from the north. What brings you to my humble lodgings?”

Glimpsing the coating of the yurt, it’s no doubt that the value and condition of it is richer than previous areas they’ve visited.  
“Humble?”

“Aye. Vvardenfell’s populace have always described us a humble folk, more diplomatic, albeit not as destitute as Ahemmusa, of course.”

“Uh, well…not exactly the most modest joint I’ve ever witnessed, as ashlander tents go…”

Kaushad does not wince from the thinly veiled accusation, but chuckles sociably, though Jollain perceives it as somewhat sleazy.  
“Well, what’s a man to do, hmm? Have to take on a few upgrades here and there, spice it up a bit. For the sake of a more polished hospitality, you see.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it”, Jollain utters cynically, before skipping ahead. They need to be cognizant of the stakes. “Well, I’ve got no cause to lie or speak half-truths, so lemme be direct – I’m the Nerevarine. My buddies here and I have come to this place to seek the blessing and allegiance of the Zainab tribe. If that’s, erm…okay with you.”

Unsurprisingly, Kaushad is not vividly swayed by this burst of testifying statements and scrutinizes the entire posse with pervading distrust. Doesn’t even leap into a response, as he feels compelled to sip on his drink at first, possibly rinse his gradually tingling mind.  
“Okay, let’s start back and take that again. You are…who?”

“The Nerevarine. Uhm, I mean…that’s not my name. Call me Jollain. This is Tayerise, Maak-Veh and Vaziri. Oh, and Amnet. But the Nerevarine is who I’ve become, thanks to the Urshilaku. Or uh, shaping up to be. That’s the goal. Like, eventually…relatively speaking. Been cruising all over Vvardenfell to triumph. Well, not _everywhere_ on the isle. Not every single nook and cranny…”

The bosmer’s rambling doesn’t exactly imbue him with a ripening sense of comfort or certainty, less so as he inspects her posture.  
“And you’re demanding our obedience? To what price, might I ask?”

“Well…not _demanding_ , but…  
Listen, the gist of it is, we’re trying to fulfill the Nerevarine prophecy. Dagoth Ur is on the rise - he’s spreading his blights and diseases across Vvardenfell, growing his huge monster army and he’s bent on becoming the almighty ruler of Morrowind, a god. Uh…a _new_ god, I guess. Since you already have three…  
Well, not _you_ , but…y’know.  
Point is, if Morrowind doesn’t unite to topple the guy, we’re screwed. This is why I’m here. It’s why Azura sent me. Or…suppose she didn’t exactly tell me to go anywhere. Just sort of…gave me a nudge in the back and a ‘good luck, have fun’ wish.”

Kaushad elevates a hand to make her desist.  
“Look, lady, you’re a fine woman and all that, and you do relay a superbly fanciful and lively tale, but I’ve no will or time for piss-takes of a legend.”

Jollain is brought to silence and ambivalence, but only temporarily and superficially. Not the first time she meets protests, even if they weren’t verbalized in this precise or plainspoken manner. She can contend with it, though. This can come down to a discussion and she has bargained with his ilk in the past.  
“Hear me out, okay? Not yanking your chair here. Being full-on sincere, no uncertain terms or nothing. I’m laying bare the unaltered truth – no more, no less. Maybe a lil’ condensed…”

“Pff. And you believe that yourself, f’lah? Because it sounds like a righteous arsepull to me. There’s no Nerevarine – never was, never will be, ‘cept in the fantasies of the Urshilaku. It’s bloody farcical they swear by fairytales even now, in the modern age. And here come you, strutting into my blasted yurt with nothing so much as slightly unique to your name and spout all this gibberish right to my face?” He laughs mockingly. “Fucking absurd.”

Alright, now she’s delving into a noticeable increase in shock. And fury. She can endure skepticism and challenges, those are trifles, but straight up insults and being belittled?  
She frowns and lifts her hand.  
“You wanna be like that, asshole? Fine. You see this?” She busts out her hand in a brisk pace and the gleaming ring on her finger. “Recognize it? The Ring of Ancestors. Suck on that. What do you have to say now, huh?”

He tilts his head, studying the jewelry from afar, but doesn’t reach for it.  
“And what, that’s cold hard proof to you? Don’t think anyone else have tried this scheme before?”

“…pardon? What fucking scheme?”

“Could be a counterfeit. We’ve heard of flushes of scammers and opportunist pricks that went around the isle to cheat and manipulate others before.”

Jollain shuts her eyes, exhales sharply and throws her head back.  
“Oh come on now! Are you for real? I assure you, it’s no fake. It’s very much authentic and I can prove it.”

“Yeah right. That’s a long shot, girl. What you’ve got squeezing your finger can be any ring.”

She rips it off impromptu and presents it for him.  
“Alright, wiseguy, have a go and put it on, then. If you die, maybe the rest of your society won’t be so divines-damned bullheaded.”

He huffs and waves off her offer.  
“You think I’m daft? Could easily be boobytrapped.”

The smile she deploys now is seeping with sardonic flavor.  
“Like by Azura, you mean?”

“Or just a common bloody enchantment. I’m no fool, lass.”

“I beg to fucking differ.”  
The hostile tension between these two is now mounting to unmanageable levels, extending all over the tactile senses. Jollain is beginning to get extremely frustrated – if he was seeking to get a rise out of her, he’s too adept at it. Or maybe this is just the type of person he is?  
She soon diverts to her friends. Probing them for a smoother way.  
“Anyone else got something?”

Sadly, all three seem to lack for a proposal which would make much difference.  
“Uh…”, Tay emits. “I could…try.  
Ashkhan, none of us mean to impose on you, but you wouldn’t be alone. The Urshilaku and Ahemmusa have already seen the light and endowed their blessings. They stand with us.”

Kaushad snorts and rolls his eyes in an unaffected vein.  
“Oh, well isn’t that plain _dandy_. The zealots and the weaklings. We’re positively fucking secure then, aren’t we? Gonna win this bloody war in no time.”

Naturally, it’s practically dripping with sarcasm. But this doesn’t mean the rest will simply budge. Next, Maak lays out another fact.  
“You do realize we can help stabilize Vvardenfell with this mission, don’t you?”

“Stabilize? From what? It’s secure enough, I say.”

“And what basis is there for that assessment? Your government is waning, Dagoth Ur’s army grows in force and numbers, violence and deaths of any motive are on the rise. In time, trade routes will be disrupted, and disease will litter the streets, with no cure to prevent it from taking every single person, no matter their origin.”

To this, the Ashkhan nearly guffaws, which precedes him shaking his head.  
“What, are you some crude doomsday prophet in disguise, lizard? This whole tirade of yours is just that – yammering. We’re safe here, our deals are fair and our resources plentiful. Won’t sell me on your end-of-days nonsense with this effort.”

Maak promptly folds his arms, clearly offended by the man’s flippant dismissal.  
“Hmph. But for how long?”

Vaziri, ironically enough, has the opposite angle.  
“Then perhaps, as an ashlander, you can appreciate what this war will produce – chaos and change, a new revised Morrowind to thrive in.”

He arches his eyebrow, glancing between the argonian and the khajiit.  
“…pardon? What in Oblivion are you on about now?”

“The prophecy is real, and it is very explicit – the Tribunal will fall, and with it, a new order shall be established for this nation. Consider the possibilities.”

Kaushad, instead of letting it inundate him, leans towards her, staring straight into her eyes, red to orange.  
“And of what kind is that, hmm? More open to outlanders? Boosted power in the hands of the privileged Great Houses? You’re not so dumb as to assume it’ll let us propagate our own dominion, do you? We’re ashlanders. The tribes are what we are, who we are. There’s no centralization, no collective fortune. We all set our own focus and live by it. It’s the world we strive for. So how does any of your prophecy shite serve me or my tribe?”

Having borne the same aggravating sensation as the others, Vaziri peers at Jollain.  
“…he is hopeless.”

Jollain shrugs.  
“You’re telling me?”

“Sounds to me like you gits just don’t get it”, Kaushad almost spits. “You keep throwing complete and absolute rubbish at me, without really wrapping your heads around our core tenets.  
Most of all, I’m leery of this by dint of what you’re putting forth. Chew on it yourselves – you basically barge into my quarters, tap my tribe’s history and rites, in order to conscript us for war. You’re slipping us right into an impossible battle we never asked for, with vague and unobtainable promises. From where I’m sitting, can’t see why we should aid you with a single bloody aspect of this suicidal plot.”

“It’s not suicidal”, Jollain insists. “I mean, did you not hear the part I said before about monster army? I’m not making this shit up. Plus, this will be beneficial for you, I promise. If, or when, the Tribunal are gone, that doesn’t necessarily have to end with the Great Houses scooping up all that power for themselves. The chances of them squabbling over it all are pretty high, I’d wager and with the Good Daedra returning to the picture, who knows what could be consolidated?”

“Tsk, you just won’t stop, will ya? You seriously believe they’ll welcome back the daedra? Regardless, our situation today is up to par on security. We’ve got trade deals with the Hlaalu, we’re affiliated with resource networks encompassing some of the villages in the east and south of Vvardenfell and entered the process in which to obtain goods from the Telvanni, a solution that will expand our import and export prospects to the nth degree.”

From the group, Tay is taken aback by every segment, especially the last.  
“Wait, you…work with the Great Houses?”

“’course we do. Why are they the only ones who get to take advantage of the properties of Vvardenfell?”

“Well, I…guess that’s fair enough. Merely…surprised. It’s unorthodox.”

He flashes a small grin.  
“Damn right it is, but it’s the optimal way to survive, keep our independence and territory.”

“Wait, hold up”, Jollain interrupts, holding her hands in the air. “What was all that crap about losing terrain to the Great Houses then, if you’re in their pockets?”

“Well, while I couldn’t give a shalk’s arse for the survival of the false gods, at least I figure their intervention stops the Great Houses from stepping out of line. They’re in charge.”

“Oh you _figure that_ , do you? Then you’re out of the loop, buddy, cuz the Tribunal has kept to the shadows for years now. They’re not wrapped up in politics anymore – all they’re fixating on is saving their own hides. But they’re losing this battle, believe you me, so there are only two choices – assist me in stopping all of the false gods or Dagoth is gonna smash us all.”

In spite of her insistence and heartfelt declarations, the Ashkhan isn’t convinced.  
“You really find this so easy, don’t ya? Here you burst in, giving your abbreviated edition of our history, telling us to get ready for battle? The Zainab tribe has no penchant for drivel and I sure as fuck don’t have patience for Redoran-style rhetoric. Can piss off with it all.”

His patience isn’t the only one being tested, as Jollain rubs her temples.  
“How can you simply…handwave all of these issues, as if they’re not catastrophically distressing? Like, what of the Blight? It’s running hog wild across Vvardenfell, right at this damn second.”

“What, the imaginative narrative of the bards regarding some plague?” He shrugs, untroubled. “Haven’t noted any diseases out here.”

“The Ahemmusa were hit, though! Almost wiped out.”

“Are your ears stuffed, girl? The Ahemmusa are weak and blinded by tradition. You have to be adaptive to stay afloat in these environments, especially under the Great Houses, something they’re oblivious to. They’ll be replaced by a more…enterprising tribe, in due time.”

Tay’s frown hardens. For every new line this man has, her animosity ramps up. Spotting Tay clenching her fist, Maak knows he has to intervene. He holds a hand over her shoulder, whispering without moving.  
“Cool it down. Be patient. Count to a set number and think of a place which brings you solace.”

“Where I can sock him, you mean?”, she replies in the same volume.

“…not that form of solace.”

By now, they get the distinct impression that this conversation is running in circles and someone has to do something in order to shut it down, whatever direction it’ll swing. Jollain is determined to solicit one last time.  
“Is there no way we can prove our honest and genuine devotion to this initiative for you? We do desire what’s best for you and all of Morrowind. Give us a chance.”

Kaushad surveys the bosmer yet again, his eyes colliding with hers for what feels like a troubling number of seconds. Towards the end, Kaushad smirks in a way which instills Jollain with a belief that he’s been playing her the whole time, grabs his drink, takes a huge swig and tosses the empty mug behind him.  
“Well, now that you plead so nicely, as a matter of fact, there is one tiny wedge we’d like to dislodge.  
In a cave, around the western borders of our domain, there’s a massive ferocious beast that’s harassed the Zainab for a prolonged period. Just a nuisance months ago, but now it’s a true thorn in our side. It’s obstructing our mining operations, but opportunities to slay the mangy bastard have been scarce. It’s a wily one and it hunts with a small flock.”

“Huh. A beast, you say? Not what I had expected, but…”

“But a problem you can solve? If you can erase it, I might be more open to…subjects related to goodwill and friendship. Though, I do recommend going at night – that’s when it sleeps and is thus most vulnerable, allegedly.”

Jollain still holds a mug in her hand, letting the sujamma swirl inside of it as she spins the container around. Pondering their proposed sub-quest, she cuts to her companions, the argonian first and foremost.  
“So, Maak, ready for a hunt?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah, Kaushad is not quite the same man we see in game_


	41. Blood bargain (part 2)

As much as it pains Jollain to admit it, the world isn’t nearly as callous as she had come to take for granted. Like the others, she had foreseen some kind of complication up ahead, as this is after all the trials cooked up by the capricious mind of a daedra. But this, on its face, does not have the earmarks or the qualities of the previous miseries.  
Perhaps they should wait with verdicts, however, until the mission is said and done. Still plenty of opportunities for this to go belly-up.

Then again, messing around with a monster hunt wasn’t quite the type of quest that the group had been setting themselves up for in this region and their experiences in this field, beyond one person, falls way short of the requirements. Not that they had hoped for a cakewalk, but maybe a slice of it?

Adhering to the advice of the Ashkhan, given that he’s one of the people who genuinely lives and breathes this environment, they made camp and rested until night descended on Vvardenfell.  
The moons rise above them on this partially cloudless late hour, bringing Jollain a measure of comfort. The shadows of the dark console her as ever, but the celestial bodies in the ceiling of the world currently acts like the eyes of an esoteric guardian, which they sorely need. Not exclusively for this hunt, but in general on this unprecedented adventure.

The darkness, while an unignorable hurdle for some, is an element which both Vaziri and Maak-Veh can transcend. Vaziri has her natural night vision and Maak possesses years of expertise hunting in all stripes of environments, conditions and temporal variables.  
There are facets of this predicament which causes apprehension even in Maak, however – more defined, it’s the fact that he can’t find a lot of fresh beast tracks in the heading which the Zainab indicated for the team.

At the moment, they’re halted outside the perimeter of the cave system supposedly buried in the hills nearby. Tayerise is on sentry duty, standing a few meters off with her axe resting on her shoulder and Amnet obediently at her feet as he sniffs the air. Maak is kneeling on the ground, grazing it with his claws, with Jollain and Vaziri parked just behind. The bosmer has folded her arms, eyes surveying her mentor as he practices his legwork.

“Any idea why this might be, Maak?”

The argonian digs his claws farther into the soil, his irises thinning as they do. They zip this way and that, with Jollain unsure as to whether he’s still scouting or if something else is at play.  
“Can’t answer. Not with what we have.”

“Hmm. Any chance it’s like, a flying monster?”

Maak’s irises dilate again and he utilizes his spear as a crutch to get back on his feet.  
“Doubtful. Surely, the Ashkhan would’ve detailed a divergent trait like that?”

“Uh, I guess? The guy was pretty shady as is, so who knows what tricks he’s got in his bag?”

The district of the land they’ve entered carries very negligible distinctions from the rest of the Grazelands. Trees are scant, the fields are green, and a ton of plants, fungi and other vegetation are at their disposal, which borders every nook. And yet, Maak’s expression distorts with unrest.  
“There is something…off about our destination”, he asserts.

“Off?”

“I can’t quite place it, but a sting in the air has my nose unsettled.”

Skeptical of his explanation, Vaziri elevates her own and inhales deeply.  
“I discern nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Haven’t you had pursuits like these ones in the past, where the beasts haven’t showcased traditional behavior, Maak?”, wonders Jollain.

The Spymaster is still levying his vision elsewhere, on the path to the west.  
“Can’t say every single hunt is like the other, but this one undoubtedly contains its own unique flavor.” Discarding thoughts of additional forums on this topic, he picks up a new pace, striding onwards.  
“Stay on my heels. Let’s explore the cave.”

With any other alternative lacking, they comply. Maak is the senior here, both in age and talents.  
As the argonian puts his full concentration on the road ahead, Jollain deviates to Tay right next to her. There’s nothing extremely obvious to point out, but the minimally creased brow doesn’t escape her. She knows that the warrior churns feelings of inadequacy in these settings, when no skills she can bring to bear is conducive to the task.

To unburden some of it, Jollain smiles and wraps her hand around her girlfriend’s.  
“Been quite a while since we were on a night stroll, huh?” She notes how the crimson eyes slip into her direction, fingers squeezing hers. “Okay, not the sexiest climate for it, but…”

Her worries subside as Tay mirrors the expression and pulls her in.  
“Aye, I hadn’t planned for a romantic trip out here either.”

“What, hunting excursions don’t get you going?”

“Well…they can, but the looming concept of doom does degrade the mood a little.”

“Bah. Lil’ bit of boundless and uncontrollable havoc never killed anybody.” Tay stares at her, brow slowly rising in puzzlement.  
“…alright, yes, that sounded stupid to me too.” With a somewhat calmer wind in their midst, Jollain pulls out a throwback which seems apt.  
“Recall that our first encounter was during the night as well.”

Tay blinks and isn’t coaxed by the idea.  
“Yes, indoors, if you remember. And we were enemies.”

“Mhm, too true. But we had a real rumble, didn’t we?”

“…you knocked me out.”

“I _am_ drop dead gorgeous.”

Had she a mind to make Tay laugh, this does prophetically turn into reality.  
“Tsk. Is this a time for swagger?”

“For me, it always is.” She chuckles to herself and steers her gaze to the ground. “You know, perhaps we can cook something once we get back to camp with this victory over our heads. In fact, thus far, I’ve got limited exposure to the intimate customs of the ashlanders. Care to share?”

“Intimate?”

“Yeah, like buying a girl dinner or taking her for a picnic – should try that on for size, maybe?”

She does certainly raise a compelling argument, for they haven’t had many days to devote to themselves or their life together. But this version might be slightly misdirected.  
“Ashlanders aren’t as dissimilar to us in this regard as you assume.”

“Fair enough, but they have their own variants, don’t they?”

“Are you…telling me to invite you to such an occasion?”

Jollain’s former smile now expands and she crosses her arms over her chest.  
“I dunno, what do you think?”

Tay’s lips separate fleetingly, prior to scratching her neck with a tinge of indecision.  
“…you realize I hardly have any sort of instructions on the matter, right?”

“So improvise, cutie. Make me feel special.”

Before they can elaborate and sketch this hypothetical date out, Maak calls attention to himself with a summary whistle.  
“I’ve tracked the cave. It’s ahead, down this slope.”  
His companions catch up and navigate to the spotlight he carves out.  
“First and foremost, you have to be aware that I’ve yet to discover any prints of the beast, or… _any_ beast in the magnitude which would match the Ashkhan’s description.”

“Is the entire terrain bereft of animals, then?”, Vaziri inquires.

Maak shakes his head.  
“No, that would be imprecise to state. There are fauna and game in this expanse, just none which can be characterized as humongous, in accordance with the Ashkhan’s words.”  
His gaze flits back and forth as he ruminates on his own assessment.  
“In fact, on reflection, out of all the creatures I’ve stalked and observed over the years, none come to mind that would fit. A kagouti, possibly, but that would prove no contest to ashlanders, except if it was mutated by the blight somehow. If there truly is a beast here, it came from the mainland.”

Jollain scratches her cheek.  
“So, wanna take a shot on what it is? Someone threatening the Zainab somehow, by letting this loose on ‘em?”

“Could be an honest mistake”, claims Tay. “Like unwittingly bringing animals on a vessel from one land to another.”

“Uh, of this size?”

“The latter isn’t unheard of”, Maak asserts, “though I have serious reservations that any predator of such a breed would be brought on a fluke. I do not wish to pass any haphazard judgments, however, until I’ve accumulated more evidence.”  
With no other stipulations, they move towards the cave. Upon arriving at the entrance, they allow Maak to descend to ground-level once more, and render further calculations.  
“Tracks”, he tells them, outlining the marks with his claws. “But not from any indigenous beasts. These are shoeprints, probably ashlanders.” His claws continue, drifting upwards.  
“Scratchmarks too, here around the outer cave wall and the rims. Hmm. Consistent with dreugh and nix-hounds, but most of these appear old. Possibly months or longer.”

“Dreugh?”, asks Jollain. “Aren’t they, like…big crabs?”

“Semi-sentient aquatic creatures with land-based capabilities, yes. They are unlikely to have been here recently, as the residue they leave is typically far more concrete. I can detect none of this here.”  
He takes a couple of short steps into the shadows, but doesn’t vanish. Then, he acquires a deep intake of breath.  
“The smell is…leftover cadavers, dust and presumably some underground plants. No natural stench of any specific animals, no feces or other remains.”

This is turning more bizarre by the minute. Jollain shifts to the khajiit, hoping for better tidings.  
“Vaz?”

She spots a flicker from Vaziri’s undamaged ear, as she stares straight into the center of the opening.  
“For the moment, I can distinguish no residue of magic, which should indicate that nothing overly unnatural is at play.”

Doesn’t do much to take the pressure of, sadly.  
“Unless they hide.”

“That would…not be inconceivable.”

In the end, Jollain makes the call.  
“A’right, let’s enter. Beast or no – loitering out here, we won’t find out. Gotta take a closer peek.” She coughs awkwardly and glances the khajiit once more.  
“I’d be thankful if you kept a flame on, though.”

Vaziri flashes a faint smile.  
“This is a commission I am able to fulfill.”

She summons a quick spell and a magical light sparks in her palm.  
Together, they delve inside the dimly lit tunnel and the deeper they go, the more qualms Maak procure. He doesn’t voice it, but the creases on his face, the perturbed nudging of his facial horns, the manner with which he digs the butt of the spear into the ground, they communicate the story adequately.

“I cannot conclude with 100% definition”, he utters, “but I’m fairly confident no beast has nested here in quite some time.”

“Time is…relative, though, right?”, Jollain comments.

“But these traces are not. It has been many months or more. However, there remains unmistakable signs of activity around. I suspect someone else is implicated here.”

“Foul play?”

“We shall see. Stay on your guard.”

With a stir in the air, Jollain hesitates and puts a hand on Maak’s shoulder.  
“Wait. You don’t recommend we bounce?”

“I shouldn’t think so. It’d be wise to investigate while we’re here. Whether the tribe provided misinformation or was simply mislead, we won’t sift it out until we see this through.”

“If it is the former”, Vaziri starts, “it would be a simple affair to backpedal and recoup our losses, so to speak. At least we will decipher a fragment of this man’s psychology.”

Jollain lets go of her mentor, her eyes drenched with trepidation.  
“Fair point, I guess, but I’d question if we wanna play ball with someone who bluffs us. Or worse, leads us right into a trap."

“Precisely. The more facts, the better. Take it from me, Jollain. This field is one I am exceedingly acquainted with.”

They progress via the tunnel and into the heart of the cave discreetly and cautiously, linking up with nothing atypical along the route. They’re wary of every shadow, every minute quiver and keep their eyes peeled for anything or anyone laying in wait. Both Maak and Tay’s weapons stay unsheathed, but Jollain delays regarding her own. That’s not to say she’s perfectly cool – her fingers wouldn’t be tapping the hilt otherwise.

Eventually, somewhere midway, Maak unearths a fresh clue, which he emphasizes with his spear.  
“There it is. The…beast they were so keen on alerting us about.”

Jollain and Tay wanders forth, up to the argonian and what they witness is quite unnerving and unanticipated – it is an animal alright, potentially a bear which would be unconventional, but long dead. Only a skeleton lingers. Jollain scratches the back of her head in bemusement.  
“…wow. Unless that’s an unusually lazy reanimated skeleton, I’m gonna come right out and say the scary monster is long since worm food.”

“Your verdict is sound.”

Now situated at close proximity, Vaziri conjures and transmits a pulse, a magical detection spell. Her results return shortly.  
“I can ascertain no debris in the area which would testify a necromancer’s influence. Thus, we can rule out such interference too. That said, I once read that-“  
She stops midsentence and furrows her brow.  
“Wait…”

Jollain, still stationed next to a kneeling Maak, peers over her shoulder.  
“Everything okay, Vaz?”

“I…don’t know. There is…a presence. Or several.”

In her peripheral view, she notes Maak rising and nodding slowly.  
“I feel them too. We are not alone.”

With them freezing up and the suspense growing in the air, it washes over Jollain, who responds with comparatively more dismay.  
“Uh, okay…you two are starting to creep me out a tiny bit. What are you-“  
Suddenly, from the twisting shadows and untouched abyss come what they had dreaded – an ambush. Roughly a dozen armed figures lunge forth and hems the group in, completely surrounding them, weapons of all shapes and angles aimed at them. The four humanoids inside all grip their own tools, soon ending up back-to-back.  
“…well, shoulda seen this coming, huh?”

“We did”, Maak verifies.

In this faded room, it’s hard to distinguish the appearances of their foes, nor who they are, as none of these individuals have any light sources attached. It’s almost incredible how well they had camouflaged themselves. Almost.  
Only Vaziri’s spell illuminates them at all, but not in any intricate fashion – black hoods and masks conceal the true identities.  
“So, uh, is it appropriate timing for introduction-“

The unnamed assailants do not hang tight and evolve the conversation, but instead go all out, immediately pressing the offensive and striking from all sides. There are merely two who stay put. The attackers divide themselves across the team, into astoundingly equal chunks. Vaziri faces two, Jollain tackles another pair, while Maak and Tay has to handle a trio each. As the only person without physical equipment, the khajiit establishes an arcane shield in short order, to sequester herself, so that she can charge the heavier explosions.

The initial burst is weighty, but not unwieldy. The team fends off the attacks, slashes and stabs that gnaw and tear for them, but it is tough going. The sole reason they manage to hold their own is due to experience. All four have been in binds like these before up until this day, and though this isn’t a breeze by any stretch, neither is it a doomed destiny. By Jollain’s complaints, however, one might consider otherwise.

“Hey, guys! How ‘bout we slow down and-“ She is cut short, as an axe sings and lashes for her throat, but she just about dodges. “Whoa! What the flying fuck?! C’mon, this isn’t a very decent way to treat guests! You can’t-“ Blocking the first opponent, the second aspires to pierce her from behind, but she catches them in the act and drops to the floor, nearly causing them to stab each other. If only.  
“Okay, that’s it! No more of this polite horsecrap!”

Jollain abruptly amplifies her speed and struggle, to discourage and push her attackers down, which does put pressure on them.  
After a minute or so, she and the others get the impression that nothing progresses in either side’s advantage, as if their adversaries are not shooting for glory or blood, merely stalling. But for what purpose? Perhaps it’s time they accelerated on their own and seal the deal, before anything unfortunate occurs.

In a pivotal moment, one of the attackers that bided her time now charges an incantation. Blood red energy surges in her grasp, with decaying stenches filling the air. As it caps out, she launches it square at Jollain, which hits the bosmer’s chest and temporarily weakens her form, letting her sink to her knees. The magic itself manifests like a sustained thread of scarlet energy between the woman’s hand and Jollain’s chest, throbbing endlessly. Curiously, her two foes withdraw, to afford it space and momentum.  
This woman carries a prideful, vain poise at first, as her magic penetrates Jollain’s body, but it doesn’t last. Few seconds of an interlude, Jollain is back on her feet, and the woman’s eyes widen in astonishment.

Following the absence of an effect, the last person from the shadows speaks up.  
“What’s wrong? Why isn’t it mutating?”

The woman is still having her hand raised, floating between her palm and the bosmer.  
“I…it can’t. She should’ve been infected, but I…I can’t establish a link. She’s immune.”

Those who overhear it all pause, dazzled by the revelation. Jollain’s face, on the other hand, emanates both a sense of gloating and derision. She thrusts her hands at her hips.  
“Yeah, of course, you idiot. Hey there, shitmuncher – I’m the Nerevarine. Pleased to scorch ya.”

Her hand soon crackles with an electric charge, as she loads a counterspell. In the same vein as what they just performed, she erupts it head on, impaling the chest of the woman, who by the sheer force and impetus is violently catapulted backwards.  
With this momentous strike, the battle takes a sharp turn. Their enemies are so shell-shocked by event that they aren’t ready for the reprisal. Tay, Maak, Vaziri and even Amnet disarms or floors a few, but refrains from killing. They’re winning.

Seeing this reversal and their strategy backfiring, the leader in the rear end leaps out.  
“Whoa! Hold it there, please! We yield.”

They hear a man’s voice, one that carries a familiar clang. As he throws back his hood and enters the radius of the radiance spell, they unmask none other than Ashkhan Kaushad.


	42. Blood bargain (part 3)

Sometimes, Jollain wonders what she’s done to deserve this miserable fate. Did her birth piss one of the Divines off? Or maybe some daedra poked their fingers into her existential fluids and mucked it all up? She can’t imagine why.  
There’s always the potential that she was a particularly abrasive asshole in a previous life and is now paying the piper for these unelaborated misdemeanors. Either way, she’d like it very much for Nirn to just stop harassing her and her friends. Sending ambushes from people she’s supposed to appease is not the mark of a charitable world.

At this stage, everything has grinded to a halt. Their current state can’t really be labelled as a stalemate, as much as befuddlement, on both sides.  
With weapons kept at the ready and a large margin of their foes at a moderate disadvantage, Jollain slashes the tip of her blade on the ground and commandeers the conversational command.  
“Okay, sorry to be bossy, but I demand to know what the fuck just went down and what you guys were picturing that you’d do with us. Guessing it wasn’t to kill, ‘cause you wouldn’t have delayed this long for it.”

Suspense, raw instincts, balancing on the threadlike properties of terror. The sole way to conciliate it is by the say-so of Kaushad.  
“Hey, give ‘em some space”, he bids his allies. He likely knows full well that this won’t end pretty if they defuse it barring foresight. As his compatriots recede, a few still emptyhanded, the Ashkhan levels his senses against Jollain.  
“Wasn’t havin’ a laugh earlier. I honestly thought that old prophecy bollocks was a ruse. But now…” He sets a hand onto his chest and lowers his head in recognition.  
“I gracefully proffer the wholehearted apologies on behalf of the Zainab. Never meant to insult anyone who uh…well, could presumably sever the entire governance of this tribe right seamlessly. And I for one sorely wish to continue living.”

Jollain pulses with unamused sentiments, twirling her blade around in her fingers.  
“For that to solidify, someone’s gotta inform me what in all that’s holy is going on here. Are you folks even ashlanders?”

Kaushad elevates a finger and opens his mouth, but nothing escapes it, for he fumbles on where to go at it from. He optically confers with his brethren, but none of them can contribute gainful answers. It’s all up to him.  
“First of all – yeah, don’t you go doubting that part. We are a tribe, only…unorthodox.”

“To say the least”, mumbles Tayerise.

“Then why all the smoke and mirrors?”, Jollain adds. “What are you hiding here?”

As the top of the tribe, Kaushad steps into the fore, to clump suspicions at him.  
“I’m inclined to air out what you’re inquiring, but…I urge ya to keep an open mind.”

Wrinkles loom on Jollain’s brow, as she hoists and taps the blunt end of her sword on her shoulder in an impatient maneuver.  
“Funny you say that, after you were so stoked to disregard and then chuck us into the fucking brimstone, pal.”

“I…acknowledge the hypocrisy of it, but give us a chance.”  
He rotates his hand in a gesture for the remaining dunmer.  
“Alright, people, hoods off. Let’s show ‘em we’re no crooks that shy from scrutiny.” His tribesmen and women follow his behest, though there are still traces of doubt on a few. While they may not be acquainted with express names, a few of these faces cropped up in Zainab’s quarters earlier in the day. The core cogent fragment, from Jollain’s standpoint, is how pale many of them are.  
“The two blokes here on my right are Ashibaal and Minassour, my Gulakhans. Then we’ve got Zaba, my lead hunter, on the left. The woman who eh, impacted you, is Sonummu Zabamat, our Wise Woman.”

Every instance that the group has had to be confronted by a person carrying this job description, they’re aged and relatively haggard women. This one, by contrast, can be no more than middle-aged, nigh young in such circles. Did her mentor die prematurely?  
“Very fucking wise shooting me with an impotent spell”, Jollain spits out. “Not sorry for the counterpunch, by the by.”

Sonummu frowns as she’s seated in the rear end, licking her wound. She flicks some of her now damp black hair out of her face, but advances little beyond that. Kaushad meanwhile, presses forward with his account.  
“Zainab is the name of our tribe…and in recent terms, also our clan.”

“Clan? Isn’t that just another word for the same thing?”

“In most circumstances, it would be, but you don’t know the valid associations.  
You see, years ago, we were assaulted by a separate clan, known as the Berne.”

“Berne?”, Tay repeats. ”That’s not any ashlanders I’m aware of.”

“Small wonder. Probably by virtue of them not being of this origin – truth is, they’re vampires.”

The eyes of the whole team flies wide and arms are once more borne for combat.  
“Vampires?!”, Jollain blurts.

“Whoa, hold up! Keep your trousers on. I’m not finished, and I’d implore you to perk your ears.”

Anxiety and contention trickles in waves across the team’s visage. Suddenly, some facets of their obstacles since their arrival click into place, as does the pale surfaces.  
“What, and let you eat us? There’s a lotta nonsense I’ll let slide in my life, but getting made into a blood feast ain’t one of ‘em! You wanna chomp on us, you gotta fight for it!”

“No! Simmer down, please! We’re not here to consume any of you!”

“Not anymore, you mean!”, shouts Tay. She and Maak are taking up forefront positions, in the event of a follow-up assault.

Whatever their mental alarms are screaming, however, the dismay on Kaushad cannot fully go unheeded. He is not in control of this dilemma and a renewed clash is not his druthers.  
“Bloody Oblivion, will you hear us out?! You’ve already disarmed half of my warriors and more violence won’t serve either of our peoples. Lemme flesh out the gaps in your knowledge, to demonstrate our stance and peaceful motives, and then you can choose what to do with us. What’ve you got to lose?”

The sight emanating from the dozen or so dunmer in the edge of Vaziri’s light reeks of shaky nerves, but no posturing or a ripeness for combat. Against their better judgments, Jollain flags for her friends to stand down.  
“Fine, we’ll listen, but if we catch anything fishy…”

“You’ll gut us. Yeah, I got the hint.” Kaushad straightens his outfit and spins his neck gradually, a meditative action of sorts.  
“Anyhow, as I was gonna mention - years ago, there was an incident here in the tribe. We were pursuing an endeavor to set up trading contacts with an alleged settlement to the north and thus welcomed an envoy.  
A pity, for the scum were playacting, passing themselves off as traders, when in reality they were having a go at kidnapping our people and use ‘em for…well, cattle. The dastardly plot was brought to center and with no means to nick us through trickery, they went in for an attack.”

“How’d it go down?”

“Well, needless to say, we skewered the cunts, but in the hectic dust-up and all, one of ours was infected. Looked rather dire to me, as no one knew a cure. In lieu of instantly and unceremoniously slaughtering the poor sod, an epiphany came to me – I saw an opportunity that had never presented itself before. I thought, could this be a blessing in a morbid disguise? Could we make the most of it and capitalize on it as an advantage?  
I mean, chew on it for a second. The power which becoming a vampire – a supernatural and magic-riddled creature - can grant was…exhilarating and virtually hypnotizing. I didn’t see any other end to the quagmire we were in, than to embrace it. Following this man’s transformation, I made him one of my Gulakhans. Well…not vetting-free, by any means. There were caveats in place.  
As a matter of fact, you were wrestling with him a couple of minutes ago.” He points at Ashibaal.

Jollain steers a gander at the man, but he’s not the one disturbing her mental waters.  
“And then what?”

“And then he was made to infect me too.”

This discussion is now heading down a path that is turning her incrementally apprehensive. The mashed up components makes for an eerie blend.  
“Alright, slow down here. You’re telling me…every single dweller in your tribe is a bloodsucker now?”

Kaushad is outwardly boggled by the deduction.  
“…what? Oh, no no no. Don’t mistake my power hunger for rash incompetence.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Be fair, Nerevarine. You really take me for a man who’d so readily squander the labor we’ve put into this? Our inner circle were changed, the top tier of our clan, but with support and allegiance from everyone involved. We’re all in on it.”

Jollain browses their fold, a gaze in her eyes that spell out her unbelieving mindset.  
“You’re shitting me. Tryna sell us the story that your tribe is a-ok with being lunch?”

“A misunderstanding. This gift benefits us all. They provide us with sustenance, we oblige their needs.”

“What ‘needs’?”

“Our abilities lend themselves to uses revolving negotiations and bartering with the merchants we deal with, to spread wealth across the totality of the tribe. And then there’s obviously the qualities of vampiric essence. It has many regenerative, alchemical and mental-boosting properties, which we extract every so often for those who desire it.”  
He parks his hands on his hips.  
“Like I said, not stupid. Keeping tribes members happy is fruitful for all and sundry. Plus, dwelling in an ashlander setting makes it simpler for us to hide from hunters too.”

None of what he has laid out has allayed all of Jollain’s qualms, but she’s not charging up for a full-on rematch either.  
“Would love to double check that with your people, but in the end, figure it’s not super important. Not like there’s much I can do to resolve a wrinkle like this.”

“Not universally correct”, Vaziri chimes in. “We could purge the vampirism element from the tribe. This would exhaustively free the Zainab.”

Jollain and Kaushad both glance at her, with different levels of bemusement. Eventually, Kaushad awkwardly clears his throat.  
“Heh, well…you wouldn’t stage something so drastic, right?” He incurs the blank stares of the women now. “…one can hope.”

Not yet disposed to dispelling the fear, Jollain shrugs uncaringly.  
“Gimme a good incentive not to, maybe I’ll lend it some credence.”

“At least you yield a scrap of clemency. After what occurred here…I appreciate it, trust me.  
To that end, I’ll be frank with ya – I was legitimately doubtful as you outright waltzed into our camp with bombast and brazen tongues. We get a lot of grandiose arsehats badgering us like that. And if you weren’t clued in on it, ashlanders overall are not the biggest proponents of outlanders trotting about in Vvardenfell.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me”, she expends sarcastically.

“You are case in point, I bet. An outlander who trumpets embodying our greatest illustrious hero, like sprouted from the mouth of an overprivileged Houser.”

A sardonic huff is ejected from Jollain’s lips.  
“Privileged, my ass. You dunno the first bit about where I’m from or how much total shit I’ve had to put up with.”

Kaushad pushes his hands up defensively.  
“No offense intended. Just stating the facts of everyone’s presumptions.  
For my perspective, I was never one to put stock in legends either, so I’m not the one to ask concerning matters of premonition and destiny, which is why I was keen on flouting it.”

“Shouldn’t your Wise Woman have posed some inquiries, though?”

The Ashkhan scratches his beard and chuckles, sharing a look with said woman.  
“Well, as you’ve in all likelihood gathered by now, Sonummu is a character all on her own.”

Jollain grimaces and hurtfully fondles her chest where the spell struck.  
“Noted that piece, yeah. Perhaps it didn’t have the effect you were going for, but it still burned like a bitch.”

“Not sorry”, the Wise Woman shoots back, equally sullen.

As she is mildly intrigued, Jollain can’t pass up the option.  
“Gotta ask – what was all this bravado for? All the frightful tales as a kid conveyed that you guys…well, bite mortals.”

The Wise Woman flaunts a faint grin to bare her fangs, with a shred of pride on her features.  
“An experiment which required further testing.”

“Ever since our turning”, says Kaushad, “Sonummu has been the most devoted to the business of reforming and developing our magical arsenal. The vampiric strain provides ample…ties to worlds unseen. But she'd never exerted it on other races than dunmer previously.”

And they call her privileged. Jollain rubs her nose, to wane the building aggravation.  
“So I was some sorta lab rat? Right. Charming. This is Fyr all over again…”

“It’s one of the methods that we employ to propagate ourselves outside the collective.”

“And who the fuck says I would join you? Especially coming off the back of this introduction.”

Kaushad, less than troubled by the prospect, merely shrugs.  
“You would’ve seen reason once shifted. Which…evidently won’t go down now.”

“Damn right. And if you touch my friends, buddy, I swear-“

He yet again pleads for patience, by lifting his hands.  
“Please, sera. No need for threats. We won’t pursue you or your allies anymore, you have my word.”

“Your word isn’t a commodity now, but you better hope it won’t reoccur.”

The Ashkhan dips his head to elicit another bout of information.  
“To get us back on track, while I’ve never actually had a penchant for it, if you’re authentic, if this legend of the ancient hero carries weight, I shan’t be fighting the mighty Nerevarine on this day. Or any day.”

Jollain snorts, but with an amused vibe.  
“Smart move. I mean…not purely because we were on the brink of kicking your pale asses.”

Sonummu dispatches a skeptical glare.  
“Such closure was still up in the air.”

With her blade lingering between her fingers, Jollain flips and thrusts it forward, angled at the Wise Woman.  
“You were a stain on the floor, lady. How ‘bout you relax on the lip, huh?”

To forestall any undue squabbling, Kaushad intrudes on the talks.  
“I’d like to make a deal, binding you and me together in hearts, Nerevarine. You’ve got a spot of quandary, don’t ya? Looking for aid, right?”

Having composed herself, Jollain uses her free hand to stroke her neck.  
“Well, yeah. As…offbeat as that probably sounds right about now. We were literally trying to slit each other’s throats minutes ago.”

“Heh. As they say, second chances and all that. I’ll get on board with offering you the endorsement of the Zainab and cede all able warriors of our tribe to your campaign on this Dagoth arsehead. In exchange, all we ask is that you and your cohorts don’t reveal anything compromising on us to anyone – not the Houses, the Temple, not even the tribes.”

Some might deem this as a somewhat tall order and Jollain’s crew is indeed one group of this ilk, showcasing a disquiet exterior.  
“I’ll be the first to admit, gonna have second thoughts on this nugget for a long while if I leave you guys to roam Vvardenfell with free rein and above reproach.”

“Bah, the latter won’t ever become reality. Our kind never live risk-free. But as luck has it, we’re not alike the other clans, Nerevarine. Give us leeway to prove it.”

In her own corner, Jollain is hesitant, on the fence where to mandate this one and do it right. She can’t dictate their fate in isolation. She banks to Tay, who unknowingly to Jollain, is vacillating on the outcome. She’s fully looped in what this will entail later down the line. A bitter end could ostensibly await.  
“Babe?”  
In spite of tragic mishaps, Tay nods, giving the go-ahead. Jollain, seeing eye to eye, reverses to Kaushad.  
“Right, I’m in favor of granting you a window. We’ll tag along and rally with your tribe. If it pans out…reckon we have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Zainab's story in game is obviously different, but I wasn't very fond of the whole "fix a slave wife for the Ashkhan" tale, so I decided to spin my own_


	43. At custom's bladepoint (part 01)

A new day and chapter dawns in the intensifying and unflagging adventure of Jollain’s crew. The more weeks that pass without deaths, the better Jollain feels about coming out the other end intact. Okay, she’s not in a positive state as yet, but scraping by. That has to count for something.  
The morale was definitely upped a few bumps as they called it a day with the Zainab. For a time, a depressing forecast was irreversible, what with the off-the-wall scenario that was thrusted towards them.

The investigation into the tribe’s status as prey turned up nothing sinister. For all intents and purposes, what Kaushad had avowed was spot on and fair. The mainline members had outlined what they stood to gain from it and that cooperating with a group of civil vampires, instead of fighting them, furnished discreet bargaining chips in all dealings with outsiders, be they ashlander, house mer or outlander.  
With an adequate resolution at hand, Jollain was ready to consent to the blessing of the Zainab and fealty in the upcoming battle. Kaushad was still not warm to the losses they might sustain, but better a rallied sortie than a lone annihilation.

The team then bid their farewells from the Zainab, for now, and set out for their next stop; incidentally the last leg of their current trial.  
The Erabenimsun are a little speck of a fissure in the expertise of Jollain’s entourage. Tayerise is acquainted with the name, but beyond the routine site of their sphere and cursory input, the tribe resides as a mystery.

What she has been able to elucidate for her comrades is mainly divided into three categories.  
1) Their hunters and warriors are tried and true, of supreme rank among the ashlanders.  
2) Their numbers rise past the rest of the tribes.  
3) They are acknowledged for their antagonistic tendencies, especially to outlanders, but also in principle, for good measure.

Jollain wasn’t at peak jubilation once she caught drift of where their roads would lead them. She hadn’t neglected the basic concept of the term “ashlanders”, but after having lounged for weeks amidst greenery, relative paradise, she was growing…complacent.  
Molag Amur is another swath of the blackened ember kingdom, but not with the same shroud of ash and dust as the northern expanses. What it has in its place, is increased bestial presence and real, earnest pools of lava, bubbling, boiling and stewing the temperature of the air, as well as augmenting the dry attributes of it.

After unpacking their last wasteland equipment, they waded into the dense layers of charcoal central and harnessed previously holstered levels of endurance, to hold fast. Amnet is the one from the team who acclimatizes the most optimally, but he is also genetically evolved for it.  
What meager consultation they procure is minor, such as the premise of the empty and unblocked road. The skies aren’t fully unbound, for the croaking of cliff racers periodically plague them, but at least the passages ought to be comparatively harmonious to traverse.  
Or so they falsely presume.

As this specific day runs past lunchtime, the team is on a trail that points them to the northwest, via a throng of serrated soil, cramped with jagged stalagmites. To conserve stamina, discourse has minimized to sessions of substantial influence, where topics that have bearing on their itinerary has to be transmitted. This is conceivably the cause as to why the opposite wanderers in the environs do not smoke them out until it is too late, and they trample into a confrontation, as they both float past some of the natural stone sculptures.

Jollain’s dumbfounded reception at facing the dunmer man she flicks into is tantamount to his own, and they both gawk at the other. How could neither of them had gleaned this? The wind is dreadful today, but this is still farcical.  
In the same sequence, the rest of the group detects additional persons not too out of the way from Jollain’s footing. Curiously, the whole lot of them looks to be in the process of hunting or scouting for something. Is the team their quarry?

“Uh…hello?”, poses the bosmer.

“N’wah!”, cries the one bordering her and backtracks posthaste. This galvanizes his comrades, who draw up their weapons – primarily bows and spears – on instinct.

“Oh for crying out loud…slow down! My friends and I are not here to encroach or harm anyone. We’re on this road to search for the Erab…enimsun tribe. Ring any bells?”  
She peeks at her girlfriend.  
“…did I pronounce that right?”

As courteous as Jollain is struggling to be, it’s all without merit, for the hunters never planned to lend any aid. Pending a short eye-based survey, a second member nods.  
“Kill them.”

“Kill?”, emits Jollain. “Wait, you can’t-…what is it with you people and being so goddamn salt-“

She ceases midsentence as the man with the chief proximity hoists his bow and an arrow.  
Not stoked to stand and get impaled, Jollain nicks the front of the line and kicks into the soil, digging up a cloud of ash that sprays everywhere and clogs his vision. His arrow is unleashed regardless, but drastically overshoots.

This gimmick had the unfortunate capacity of being single-use and therefore she’s inspired to haul the momentum forward and proceed with her improvised countermeasures. Martial artistry is not her cornerstone instrument of violence, but in the disarray of the moment, it becomes an expedient solution. Though it would be a tough fit to call what she plies next ‘artistry’. At best, it’s a clunky jump kick, which she preps by coming in for a running leap, takes flight and half-kicks, half-collides with her opponent, to ram him to the arid ground and in the turmoil, lose his weapon.

In this pernicious state, she does not perceive how outlying members of their adversaries are posting up to terminate the job that their peer could not. Arrows are aligned and set for distribution, but this makes protective reflexes irrupt in Tay.  
Her disadvantage lies in that she doesn’t have the velocity, or the vantage point to contradict them. One who does and absolutely will, is Maak. He kicks into overdrive and wrests his spear from its rope-holster, long ahead of the ashlanders even getting poised to aim. The spear zips through the length and punctures an archer just below the ribs.

As this one is propelled to the ground in an awkward and aggressive way, his allies take his initiative up, but absent of situational awareness. They wholesale overlook the final two women.  
True to her nature and favored school, Vaziri invests in a fireball that hurtles towards the zone of a duo of archers, inflaming one. Its blast radius impairs the other, partially with wounds and partially by wind pressure.

A couple of more Erabenimsun hunters pop up and get on board with the majority, taking up seats by suitable covers to nock and prep a barrage of arrows, or at least a gang of them.  
Jollain vaults away, rushing from her dropped opponent and hightails it to a series of rocks, while her girlfriend does the inverse, charging their enemies with flaring force.  
“Tay, you ironhead, get shelter!”

Danger is imminent for Jollain as well, for the one she tackled has given chase into physical quarters and she’s compelled to slap hands onto the hilts of her blades and bare them as hastily as she’s able. Fortunately, the bosmer is a far more accomplished foe than this ashlander, blocking off and reflecting the blows she suffer. At the opportune section, she rolls beneath a broad swing, springs up to knee him in the groin and as he buckles, she pummels the back of his head, dropping him face-first.

“And stay down, scrappy. Don’t fuck with who can hardly touch.”

In the meantime, Vaziri puts up a real fight of her own, by mounting the effort to not just stem the tide, but through and through upend its ongoing flow. The archers may have a leg up per the upside of their range, coupled with speed, but Vaziri’s obliterating proclivity is nothing to scoff at. If one does, it’ll likely cost them a limb.  
She has to be wary of not unintentionally detonating one of her allies, however, as the dunmer warrior has pressured herself to venture a head-on onslaught.

Tay stares eye into eye with one of the archers upon a narrow hill, and though she can’t instantly access them, she does the next best thing – in sync with her opponent’s aim, she tosses her axe. The heavy battle axes rotates over and over and lunges into its target with a sharp, dreadful whistling. As the archer elected to attack, in favor of ducking, it touches down right on his chest, making him descend with an agonizing grunt.

Tay’s own tactic was far from flawless, as she haplessly spectates how an arrow pierces her armor close to her collarbone.  
As the indomitable juggernaut she is, Tay does not let it deteriorate her advance and she soldiers on, into the pain, until she can catch the offender and stomp his chest to render him unconscious. A second marksman buried one more projectile in her leg, but she grits her teeth, pumps the adrenaline and permits it to fuel her wrath. He is on the course of endless sleep regardless, for Amnet charges into him with bared fangs, which the guar digs into his side, preventing him from signing Tay’s death note.

Maak is not any shabbier in productivity. Shortly succeeding his toss, he soundly raced for some shielding, putting not just distance, but disruptions for his aggressors.  
Straying from Tay’s missile approach, he slings himself into a detour, but one that is ultimately a boon for him. None can spot him circling the periphery of the battlefield; not to the point where their time is up.

He comes pouncing out into the open, fast as a nix-hound, but silently as a mountain lion. Even deprived of tools, he is a foe to be reckoned with, a master of the current of combat. In fact, it would be fair to espouse that it’s where he prospers, as a former master hunter.  
His prey aren’t sufficiently tuned to his concrete maneuvers, as he succinctly lays them both low. One with a foot to the hollow of the knee and then a closed fist over the neck; the other he eludes a wide swath from, grabs the weapon-hand and then delivers an uppercut. As they reel, he wrestles their weapon away and subsequently wields it as a club to beat them over the head with it.

Over on Tay’s flank, one of the lingering conscious ashlanders attempts to capitalize on her eroding state by targeting a blind spot. Jollain from afar arranges to extricate her, but finds no warrant for her concerns.  
Another person, an unknown dunmer in an ashlander-esque wardrobe, intercepts the bowman and tackles them from behind. She takes a crack at clobbering the other waste-wanderer unconscious with her own staff. It unfolds…so-so.

Why this newcomer would assist them in the first place is inconspicuous, but they aren’t bemoaning a symbol of goodwill from any local who is inclined to.  
Though she’s in a round with her foe, she isn’t faring splendidly. Her quickness and elusiveness is on point, but her strikes could use a lot of work. Jollain infers that this might be her signal to throw the lady a bone.

Now that no one can subvert her spellcasting, Jollain beckons the ingrained lightning in her spirit to rear its crackling head and lets it fling down from overhead, in a few distracting strikes. This lends itself for a shot to victory for the benevolent ashlander, as her enemy hops to and fro. She drives the staff into the belly and then up under the chin, knocking her contact out cold. With this finish, she swirls at Jollain and bows cordially.

“Much obliged.”

“Don’t mention it. You scratched our backs. Didn’t feel right to not kick it your way.”  
Overcoming their attackers, in spite of so many polarizing entanglements, Jollain is fairly gratified, though she doesn’t ignore that Tay is limping and clutching her penetrated areas.  
“Tay! You’re wounded!”

The tall dunmer tightens her lips and smothers a tormented gasp that craves to be vented.  
“It’s…it’s fine. I’ll push on.”

Her worry notwithstanding, Jollain rolls her eyes as she cuts into her girlfriend’s locale.  
“Oh, don’t be such a hero. There’s blood slipping through your finger, for Divines’ sake!”

“What, and you’re going to treat me? With your shoddy skills?”

“…hey, backtalk isn’t gonna serve you here, missy!”

“Ahem”, interrupts the newcomer. “I have a knack for alchemy and bandaging”, she divulges. “Remedying this misstep should be a guar hunt.”

Jollain doubles back towards her, nonplussed by the offer.  
“Oh. Uh, you sure?”

“Positive. I wouldn’t leave an injured soul to rot. And…I’m still beholden to you for my own health. This is the least I can do.”

With the conclusion of the skirmish, they find a prudent area to park Tay and proceed to alleviate her of the armor pieces that interfere. The relatively young dunmer – or at the highest around Tay’s age – wasn’t jesting. Credit where credit is due, she possesses a trained eye and hands, efficiently uprooting the arrows from her patient and regulates blood flow with a variety of salves and patches of animal hides procured from a bag hanging on her shoulder.

The triage procedure winds up with sufficient results, as Tay minutes later can view how the blood has stopped leaking.  
“Give me some time and I can brew a tea that will numb the pain at least for a day.”

Tay’s eyes have been shut pending the process, but as they uncover now, she retains her hardy disposition.  
“Thank you. I’ll stay battle-fit either way. This wouldn’t slow me down.”

Over the course of the healer’s work, Jollain ascertained that everyone in the team stayed afloat. They do, with minimal damage past Tay. Their assailants, while humbled, are not all dead yet either.  
Once the woman has caught her breath and a stable mind, she examines Jollain’s features and presently recognizes the markings.  
“Ancestors…you’re the Nerevarine, aren’t you?”

As a general rule, Jollain is not psyched to project pomposity at her title’s connotation, but this is a refreshing switch of pace.  
“Someone finally got it? Dunno if I should be delighted or not.  
So, who’s this that we can rely on in the wasteland? You got a name?”

The friendly ashlander rises to her feet and dips her head, as a greeting and out of reverence, in equal parts.  
“You may refer to me as Azhedi, Nerevarine. I carry the mantle of Wise woman for the Erabenimsun tribe.”


	44. At custom's bladepoint (part 02)

The dwindling sun is setting on the horizon across the edge of Tamriel, the wasteland winds are in a state of leniency, blowing the ash into nothing more than gentle waves, as a kagouti calls for its pack on the peak of a hill.  
The hike to get into a stable nondisclosed hollow took further hours than they anticipated, for Azhedi was assertive in her input that they could not be lax. Her tribe’s hunters are too perceptive, their affinity for the land too substantive for them to linger without insurances.

The hapless fighters who lived down their match up were left unconscious by the wayside; although, Jollain was quite reluctant to simply forsake them to their destiny, as was Azhedi. In a show of charitability, despite what had been perpetrated, the group healed the wounded and tied them up in shackles that could be broken with measured applications of force. In the circumstances of the fallout, this came clear as their only resort.

With room to operate, on Azhedi’s advice, they sprinted off into the shallow wilderness, with what anonymity that the badlands could supply. To make up for the shortage of flora, the Red Mountain’s shadow does encompass rocks and pockets aplenty.  
No fresh prey had been glimpsed on the trek here, which meant that all the dinner they had to choose from were their rations of dried food and stashed meals that the Zainab were generous enough to bestow. With Tayerise locked in a roughened form, Jollain and Maak-Veh cooperated to get sleeping arrangements squared away, while Azhedi and Vaziri fixed up a fire to prepare the tea.

The blend that the young dunmer brewed was supposedly a very old recipe, mixed up from ingredients secluded in the setting of Molag Amur. It’s strong, fiery like the belly of the Red Mountain. Once a substitute of Tay’s bandages is settled, the aching and sore warrior drinks it via a mug crafted from chitin, permitting the liquid to run down her throat in delicate, lazed sips.  
Cautious as they may be to not bruise her beyond the limit that was already overexerted, she doesn’t really take to the contents with ease either. It’s made no secret that the liquid swarms past scaldingly hot degrees, but that is far from the lone scrape. Each single component has its own tricks and cruxes. For a spell, Tay’s throat doesn’t know what to do with itself, whether it desires to render her in an itch, dry as coal or choking on what she perceives as molten earth.

Towards the end, and with a tinge of water to oil the proverbial wheels, Tay draws a level of vitality and assuages her skin that howls for repentance. She is mildly astonished by the concept that the beverage served its purpose, though. She wasn’t of the unwarranted impression that Azhedi would straight up lie to her, but she bore an illusion that the Wise Woman was embellishing or overdoing the act. The truth, as it were, nestled in neither corner.

With Tay replenishing her vitals, Jollain and Maak drive the second conversation with Azhedi presently, as the tents have gone up. They plop down next to the fire, where a meal is being boiled.  
“So, uh, Azhedi, was it?”, asks Jollain.

The dunmer, only slightly above Jollain’s height and retaining a markedly average build, wears a nomad’s outfit, complete with durable pants and shirt, belt, braces and shoes of animal hides and leather, various bones for compounded ornamental and practical uses and a comparatively long beige cloak. Her skin is a light grey, contrasting with her short dark brown hair, hanging past no more than her pointy ears. A noteworthy thread is her vivid lack of a tattoo to project her clan affiliation. Then again, this might not be a universal principle.

“It is indeed.”

“Maak here and I got a few questions for ya.”

“Then I aspire to have answers due for delivery.”

Jollain portrays a subtle smile.  
“Let’s hope so. Probably oughta to pop it off by remarking that uh…well, not being judgy or anything, but you’re a lil’ young for a Wise Woman, aren’t you?”

“We have encountered more than one”, Maak carries on, “and though Sonummu of the Zainab was allegedly of an unconventional age, you can hardly exceed Jollain or Tayerise’s in years, by my estimate.”

Azhedi is…reticent for starters, fidgeting with the hem of her cloak steadily draped over her shoulders.  
“Technically speaking…I have not been officially ‘promoted’.”

“Uh, a little ambitious then?”, asks Jollain.

The dunmer’s eyes derail and meander, but with a discomfort that spells sorrow, rather than doubt.  
“No. Manirai, my mentor…is dead.”

A solemn hush traverses their numbers, for this is unshakably not merely a shock, but a reason to pay a level of respect, whether she was known or not. The tougher nut to crack is how to press forward.  
Jollain makes it her goal to continue on track.  
“Who were those chumps that came in swinging?”

“Clan members who…were led astray, onto the wrong and belligerent path.”

Maak props up his hand and contemplatively slides some of his claws over a facial horn protruding from his jaw.  
“Were they here to hunt the Nerevarine?”

Azhedi hastily shakes her head.  
“No, nothing so broad – they were after me. I…have struggled to amass friends in the tribe within recent weeks. As for the chase, the best hunters among ashlanders have always belonged to the Erabenimsun. But this? It…it goes too far. They’re being deployed for injustices which can no longer be tolerated.”

Jollain, drifting into uncharted districts, lifts her hand.  
“Okay, stop. You’re losing me a bit. What exactly is going on? What’s your tribe up to?”

The Wise Woman, or would-be, catches a grander intake of air and collects herself.  
”Permit me to backtrack to the dawn of this crisis – months ago, I was relayed the reality of the Nerevarine prophecy by master Manirai, explicitly for she had suspicions that its passing might be looming on a close sunrise. Sad as it may sound, my tribe joining you in the fight against Dagoth Ur, the bloods-bound enemy, is more than a little farfetched, due to our development for the last few years and our leader.”

“That, uh…does have an ominous ring to it. Who’s your boss?”

“Ashkhan Ulath-Pal. He has decided to heed a path of war and indiscriminate violence. In his growth as a chief, he has devolved into dishonor and foul schemes. He’s a raider now, a warmonger.” Azhedi’s eyes dart left and right, with a sense of disquiet. “Not that he’s ever been a shining star in Azura’s heaven…  
Since a young age, Ulath-Pal had a steady distaste for outlanders and house mer alike, in part by dint of the manner he and a range of our tribe were brought up.”  
Azhedi knits her fingers together, depositing them in her lap, as her gaze disappear into her memories.  
“Several years ago, he went beyond the border of what is permissible. It all instigated after he made his homecoming following a meeting with some villagers. In his careless hands, he carried the head of the village leader, blood all splotched and coagulated. He was meant to broker a profitable deal with them, to trade pelts and meat for access to their stores of saltrice, vegetables, liquor and so on. Instead, the s’wit assaulted them and took what he coveted.”

The team balks at this eye-opener, stunned by the wanton misanthropy. This is in a deeper hole than any ashlander they’ve reconciled with.  
“He…had them all killed?”

“Not…all, but most. A flock of them escaped, making for Telvanni quarters.  
Manirai protested the crime, called it the acts of evil, the ravings of the House of Troubles, but he was closed to her wisdom. He said it is our way, Veloth’s will. We would ‘no more rot in the shadows of the accursed houses and their n’wah masters that they so obediently lick the boots of’.”

Jollain snorts.  
“Terrific guy”, she comments sarcastically. “Gives me déjà vu of another gang back in Balmora.”

“On the back of this grandstanding, he and his supporters initiated a campaign, harassing anyone in reach that came too close to what he pictured as our holdings. The overall tribe put up with his tirades and malicious conduct for a few years, until enough was enough.  
There came a key moment where the axis shifted too sharply. It was just a few weeks ago now, but it’s hard to recall the exact date and cycle. A tribe of ashlanders from the mainland sent an envoy here, to Molag Amur.”

Tay, who was previously no more than half-listening, diverted from the core of the conversation, now busts her eyes open and navigates directly at the other dunmer.  
“From…from the mainland? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely! They wore clan marks, apparels and ornaments we’ve never seen here.”

The warrior’s mouth hangs open, her eyes involuntarily steering out to sea, to the south.  
“But that’s…unheard of. Amazing…”

In spite of the terror and the downer of a story she’s been dwelling in, Azhedi does hoist a faint smile at someone fathoming this event.  
“I know. I felt the same, as did Manirai and a ton of tribesmen.”

Inversely, Jollain trudges in more unaware swamps and scratches her cheek.  
“Uh, should I be worried, cutie?”

Once she relocks onto reality, Tay blinks.  
“…what? Oh, no, far from it. This is simply…astonishing.”

“It was an event unseen in generations”, Azhedi explains. “For so long, our tribes have been apart, unable to make peace with the quarrels of yesteryear. But these ones sought to reforge connections with the Vvardenfell tribes, in the hope that we can renew ties lost to time.”  
The buzz of this momentous effect does not have a lengthy hold, for soon, Azhedi’s expression goes dire and grave.  
“Their mistake was coming to Molag Amur. Ulath-Pal did not listen. He did not solely decline their offer – he captured them, held them down and slew the lot, save one man.”

Additional shock, influx of abhorrent winds.  
“What?!”, shouts Tay. “Is he insane?! Does he not understand what in the Ancestor’s name he did?! Does he hate his own people that much?! I-“

Her venting comes to an abrupt obstacle, as she clutches one of the sites for an as of yet unhealed injury that festers. In protective instincts, Jollain slides away in the blink of an eye, over to her lover’s seat.  
“Tay! Calm down, you’re opening up your wounds again, you doofus!”

“But you’re right”, Azhedi states in a dismal, grey tone. “He is…in a forsaken place now. He sent that man back across the water, with a warning that this was Erabenimsun land, all of it. Vvardenfell would be brought back any day and no one else must enter this sacred soil, without his individual admission.  
Manirai, however, could not abide such disdainful balefulness, nor would a couple of his Gulakhans. They had raised concerns, but held their tongues as he killed outlanders and house mer. This was the last straw. En masse, they spoke up and demanded he abdicated, starting a potential process which might’ve become a nascent uprising.” She shakes her head in lament. “Would that it was possible.  
Sadly, he mobilized a considerable array of allies and incited his warriors into a battle frenzy to counter such heresy. They slew any of our tribe that ran afoul of his temper, or who they viewed as a dissenter. This included Manirai, who drew her last breath declaring that he’d cursed us.”

“He bloody well has!”, growls Tay, still sore.

“Tay, for fuck’s sake!”, Jollain responds, desperately going for a new set of bandages. “You’re gonna gimme stomach ulcers!”

From the other side of the fire, Vaziri’s tail flips up and down in a moderately tense manner.  
“I know not much of ashlanders, but it does seem…severe.”

Tay is leaning over somewhat, trying to forcefully stifle the pain.  
“It’s…not just grave, but monstrous. You can’t ever slay a Wise Woman, not without good cause. Mercy or treachery are in essence the two motives.”

“Well, as heinous as it was, she did oppose the Ashkhan.”

“Vaz, please”, Jollain protests, adding another layer of bandages to her lover. “You’re adding insult to injury. A _real_ injury!”

“I only seek knowledge and context, sera Jollain.”

“Sera Tayerise isn’t off base”, argues Azhedi. “Even in times of betrayal, it’s…rare to outright murder a Wise Woman. They are our guides, our spiritual compasses. We needed Manirai in the maelstrom that had been called down, but Ulath-Pal, in his hubris and thirst for power, saw but red, an enemy to eliminate. And in doing so, he may have doomed the Erabenimsun for all time.”

Jollain puts a hand to Tay’s strong chest, pushing her backwards a tad, to give the bosmer more room to examine the damage on the collarbone. There is no mega load of blood slipping through, so perhaps she overreacted.  
“So it goes”, she mutters. “And in the boneheaded process, he might’ve fucked us all.”

“The Ashkhan henceforth commanded me to take over the commitments of Wise Woman, as Manirai’s apprentice. In the original scenario, I stood down. Wasn’t awash with a yearning to be united with death. But some days ago, I came to terms that I could not remain in proximity of his disrespect for life and traditions. So, I vacated, in order to find aid elsewhere.”

“What was your strategy?”, poses Maak. “Where would you go?”

Azhedi oscillates a bit here, insecure of her own course.  
“Well…I hadn’t quite figured that out. But someone, _anyone_ , has to stop him. Naturally, Ulath sussed my plot out and discharged hunters on my tail.”  
She then steers her eyes at the bosmer, face rejuvenating like in a surge of faith.  
“But that you, the hallowed Nerevarine”, she utters as her voice elevates with reverence, “has set foot on our embattled lands…it can be nothing short of a blessing from the Good Daedra. Please, muthsera, Great Khan, I beg your support. You may be all we have, the sole people capable of overturning our misfortune.”

As the story has winded down, the four all allot each other space to evaluate and contemplate. There is clear uncertainty on the surface, ripples of irresolution. Tay caresses Amnet’s scales, as the guar in his concern for his dunmer companion’s health during her grunts of agony has nuzzled into her leg. It is all he can run with.  
“What is it you’re asking of us?”, Tay inquires. “You wish us to…kill your Ashkhan?”

“That is the long and short of it, but it can’t be so rudimentary either. A few of his true-blue gulakhans must also be weeded out, his tamed souls that swear by him till death.”

“And if we consent to this…dethroning”, Maak points out, “do you have a stand-in that will step up? A replacement Ashkhan?”

For some reason, Azhedi deflatingly clears her throat.  
”Erm…of sorts.” She actually furnishes herself with a deep inhale and straightens her back, which disorients the rest. “I…I am prepared to take his seat.”

Not stated with the flush of conviction she had yenned for, but electrifying enough nonetheless, judging from their stupefied faces.  
“…you what?”, says Jollain.

“As the Wise Woman, I’m uniquely qualified to both lead the tribe as Ashkhan and anoint you with the blessing of the Erabenimsun’s ancestral gifts.”

This is, of course, a highly tradition-breaking and shocking prescription. To Jollain, though she keeps her mouth actively shut, it carries the tune of a power grab more than anything. With respect to her origins, the trio looks to Tay, dropping the responsibility of a reply in her lap. Not fair, nor uncomplicated, a layered issue that she seeps of. Tay appears especially conflicted.  
“Tay?”, prods Jollain.

“I…don’t know what to say. I’m partial to what’s favorable for ashlanders above all, but I don’t have the mind to leave them in…a cloud of anarchy. You’re all aware of the imperative of proper rites among the Velothi, right? Ashkhans are, ruling out the uncommon exception, men. Doing this would be…unimaginable.”

“But it can be imagined!”, insists Azhedi. “Please, I urge you, this is what must come to pass. Was the attack on sight not self-explanatory? Ulath and his puppet Gulakhans are out for blood, particularly outlanders. They will stop at nothing!”

The team isn’t openly second-guessing her, but the atmosphere is choked with misgivings anyhow.  
“Um”, vocalizes Jollain and scratches the back of her head, “personally not so much put off by them as the whole ‘monster army coming down the mountain’ thing, but…”

“We can own up to that the showdown was a palpable roadblock”, Maak tells her. “Accounting for it otherwise is fallacy, but our data on the depths of this situation is still inadequate. We have nothing but your word. Outright assaulting the tribe is not merely an act which can cost us greatly, but it is tremendously foolish to boot. To erase him and all his warriors in one fell swoop, expressly without proof, is a tall order.”

They are not alone being marooned in stress. Azhedi is caught in a morass of emotions, fluctuating from anger, frustration and despair, forlorn by all she’s ever called home. She can’t realize her goals without them, but neither does she wish to besmirch the name of the Nerevarine, the hero of the ashlanders, in a livid fit.  
“Okay, if you won’t listen to me, I may have a solution. There is another in the tribe who stands with me, but tacitly – Ainab, our lead hunter. We can establish communications and he’ll verify my story.”

Jollain splits a look of query with Maak, who nods back.  
“Yeah, okay, that’d work.”

“It would go a long way”, concedes the argonian.

“Long as we’re all on the same page.”

“Ruining furless buffoons is an idea I am in favor of every time”, announces Vaziri. “Count on my vote.”

Lastly, they look at Tay, who is rubbing her nose against Amnet’s head, her expression still inundated by obscurity, as the guar’s eyes are shut in bliss from all the attention he’s granted.  
“I…resent the premise of attacking ashlanders in principle, for all we do is suffer at the hands of the Great Houses, but…my heart would not tolerate that I leave a tribe in the grip of a man who can exact the Erabenimsun to repeat the past. I’m with you.”

“Then it’s set in stone”, declares Maak. “On the morrow, we will travel and seek the truth.”


	45. At custom's bladepoint (part 03)

A new morning commences in the fiery and flaring lands of Molag Amur, attended by the hungry croaking of soaring cliff racers and the far-off sputtering of the Red Mountain, coughing smoke and the random temperamental scorched rocks. Few dwellers of Vvardenfell are subject to what this portion of the day entails in the southern Ashlands, outside of what few travelers or hapless runaways stagger on their own into unforeseen condemnation.

For the ashlanders, the conditions are different, with emphasis on the Erabenimsun. It is rough to subsist here, arid and parched and unforgiving, but they parse the flouted fine print, the disregarded bounties sequestered away from lustful noses. Most ashlanders are attuned to the flux of this ecosystem, not by genetics or spiritual acts, but because they spend their entire lives here, from birth to the grave, where orthodoxy historically charge them to be interred in the ashes or the churning blazing blood of the Red Mountain.

Even so, to prosper amid the ashen loam, one needs special skillsets and instructions in disciplines that constitute the many-sided intricacies of a career as a hunter; knowledge that is transferred to coming generations.  
Ainab, first hunter of the Erabenimsun, is pinpointed below this classification, one who slipped into the dynamic of a hunter, who felt inherently drawn to it as a youngster. He trained for many years under a mentor, before he was greenlighted. Now, for a decade or so, he has led the tribe’s trappers and stalkers on the field by himself.

To survive, they live of what the land contributes and though the guar they raise avail valuable reserves, as a tribe, the Erabenimsun would never exploit them as a crutch. Hunting is in their clan identity, their souls. The last couple of years hasn’t provided prosperity at every grade, however. Ever since the day that Ulath-Pal was appointed Ashkhan, matters have seemed…tenebrous.

Ainab never wholly envisioned how off the charts that their chieftain would go, but sectors of his heart keep clamping on him that he should have, that he should’ve acted. Now, it’s all but too late. Manirai is dead, Azhedi is cast out and will likely become the next victim, the stone stained with the blood of many righteous gulakhans and tribesmen. Despite bearing the veil of first hunter, Ainab feels like nothing more than a figurehead, a mouthpiece.

He is not a man who ordinarily submerges into the doleful shards of life with grace, however. It may hit and knock him over, but he’ll continue to rise and trot on until his legs can brave it no more. But in such a wretched ordeal, why does he not assume a defiant exterior, take the fight to Ulath-Pal and lead the tribe back to paths where he knows they legitimately belong?  
Well, if truth be known, he doesn’t have an answer. The killing of not just one, but two Wise Women is contemptible, unacceptable and he would never have acquiesced to commit such acts with his own hands. But what if the Ancestors chose Ulath-Pal? What if this is meant to be, woven in the stars, to set the Erabenimsun on a track to glory undiscovered and unspoiled heights of salvation? That does sound like a hard sell, especially in the absence of their spirit guides, but…

Today’s hunt is inauspiciously undermanned too. He has three people to pad out the company, but he asked to carry at least six, to litter their numbers across a wider field and multiple spots. Ainab had urged Ulath-Pal to seize vigilance, to mind the fact that they also require sustenance and therefore have more integral objectives to chase than a malcontent. The Ashkhan did not heed his input. It’s like he wasn’t even acknowledging Ainab’s existence.

But the lead hunter was not entitled a pool of options from which to choose and was immediately shouldered with the duty of acquiring more food for their stocks within two days, the complications notwithstanding. They have battles to conquer, in the Ashkhan’s mind.  
Stuck in this enigmatic and constipated scenario, Ainab set out with the trio of hunters and is presently on the trail of a few nix-hounds that they surmise have passed by in recent days.

Him and his hunters’ endeavor is intercepted in the middle of the day, as they hear a call off the predetermined path, that of a kagouti. After a short debate and approximation, they stalk it, hoping to have hit the jackpot. Lucky events like these are few and far between in the wastes, which is why this ascends into enthusiasm in a snap. But instead of their prize, they end up as targets for a few outlanders. Five of them in fact, alongside a guar, all hoisting weapons as they bound out from their hideouts in the perimeter.

Their first unprompted reflex is to protect themselves, deploying bows and spears, even if it doesn’t escape Ainab that they’re outnumbered and wired at a disadvantage.  
“You are outclassed”, utters the robed khajiit in her accented, placid voice. “Lower your weapons. It would be senseless not to.”

“We don’t take attacks lying down, n’wah”, Ainab spits in retort. "You’ll have to battle us to death or worse.”

The gazes of the outlanders are hardened, persisting in their unswerving hold in spite of the threat. How did they even succeed in ambushing practiced ashlander in the first place? Were they deliberately getting a bead on them, for capture? Unless…  
The risk of a clash is thwarted by a distinct person, who jumps in between them.  
“Please, let’s not bring blood into this! Both of you should call it quits and stand down.”

Ainab’s jaw just about drops, prior to caving in to the appeal and springing towards the woman.  
“Azhedi! By Boethiah…you’re alive! I thought for sure that the hunters had rooted you out by now.”

“I was cutting it close, but these people stepped in.”

The huntmaster, who the outlanders get an improved view of, extends his arms to hug the Wise Woman, and though she reciprocates, it is somewhat more reserved. His skin is a darker grey, much alike Tay’s, but with a more pronounced brow. His long black hair is held in a tight ponytail, and his body is covered with nothing but a light outfit, clothes to protect from the natural threats, but not battle ready.  
“Had me fear that Manirai’s predictions might come to pass, you know.”

Azhedi exhales, retracts a little and folds her arms.  
“Well, don’t rush ahead. They could still come through, if we do not terminate Ulath’s rule here and now.”

Those words make Ainab’s grimmer nature come to the fore anew.  
“Easier said than done.” He nods his head at the residual parties nearby. “Who are these n’wah?”

A scant frown slinks onto Azhedi’s brow.  
“Don’t speak to them like that. Have you never witnessed that mark?”

The hunter scrupulously studies the facial tattoo on the bosmer, indicated by the young Wise Woman, but merely shrugs nonchalantly.  
“A star and a moon? How…stylish. Should it mean anything to me?”

“Damn right it should! This is the Moon-and-Star, Ainab, Azura’s chosen – the Nerevarine. The Great Khan Nerevar reborn.”

Ainab, and his hunters in kind, are not simply unprepared for this announcement, but struck by its true colors. She has never observed him so stunned; besides the day of Manirai's demise, that is.  
“Pardon? This…outlander…is the Nerevarine?”

When asked to reiterate, she does not quiver.  
“Your hearing is still dependable, Ainab. This is her, the unifier of Morrowind.”

From her stance further back, they catch Jollain clearing her throat.  
“Uh, let’s not…like, go crazy, shall we? Strictly speaking. haven’t done any o’ that yet.”

But the hunter does not share her avidity.  
“Are you…sold on this, Azhedi? An outlander Nerevarine? Haven’t slipped and bumped your head, have you? Has this little thing even the mastery for a monumental role like that? Don’t wish to imitate the Ashkhan, but there’s no chance that Azura would pick one outside our sacred isle.”

“Then you’ll have to unplug your ears _and_ eyes, for she already has”, Azhedi stresses. “The Urshilaku, the tribe who most devotedly observe the rites and histories of the Nerevarine swear by this woman. She is the Nerevarine of the Urshilaku, the Ahemmusa and the Zainab.”

By picking up on the outwardly symptoms, Ainab ascertains that she won’t be backing down on this. If she has every reason to trust that this woman is the Nerevarine, then there’s no basis for him to openly contradict her. Doesn’t mean he’ll share the belief forthright.  
He averts his gaze, brusquely reviewing the lady in question. She’s a fine one from an aesthetic perspective as a woman, seemingly shapely in just the right fashion, but that does not equate a sufficient leader, let alone grand warrior of legend. And her clothes are nonsensical, too city-like. Too imperial. This is the fateful hero of the dunmer? As if…

“What’s your name, outlander?”

The bosmer uneasily fidgets with the guar symbol hanging from her collar and stares at him with an equal measure of suspicion. Fair is fair.  
“Jollain. These are my friends – Tayerise, Maak-Veh and Vaziri.” The guar accompanying the sole dunmer in the group grunts. “Oh, and uh, Amnet too. We’ve come on Azhedi’s request, actually. Personally, we’re kinda in the thick of like, an overlong quest. Nerevarine prophecy, Seven trials, stop the big baddie in the volcano etc etc. Already fulfilled two.”

Her dismissive tone does not warm him up to her. He glances at Azhedi with a spot of puzzlement.  
“…trials?”

“Long story”, Azhedi tells him. “But they’re here to help. That’s operative idea.”

“Hmm. We’ll see. Is there anything you…provision of us, oh mighty Nerevarine?”, he states a tad tepidly.

Jollain amends her ponytail in a second nervous impulse.  
“Well, we’d be up for some answers. Your pal here’s got…lofty claims in her pocket.”

“Claims?”

“About Ulath-Pal and his uh, rule of tyranny. Alleged tyranny, that is. She has pledged on more than one occasion that she’s relayed everything with nothing less than honesty, but she kinda wised up that her voice alone won’t cut it. It’s why she proposed we search for you.”

Ainab displays a tone of disorientation at this explanation.  
“Me? Why would you be in demand of my position on this?”

Jollain shrugs.  
“It’s not a question of you per se, but like uh…”

“A larger complication where one chases confirmation”, Vaziri clarifies. “Be it your angle or someone else’s, we simply seek a second source.”

“Yeah, that.”

The hunter elevates his hand to scratch his fairly thin beard.  
“Hmm. Well, if you’re tentative as far as Azhedi goes, don’t be. Ulath-Pal is a menace, a vicious man who has for years encased our tribe with his shadow. Or…at least he went down that road. I recall hearing tales of how flippant and nasty he was since the onset of his early life, constantly challenging and clashing with his peers. After our last Ashkhan fell in a dire hunt, he achieved power and instantly dug in, strangling the tribe in an iron grip. I don’t rightly know how, but it’s only gone downhill.”

Azhedi motions poignantly at her comrade, eyes snapped to the outlander team.  
“There you have it, my statements proven outright. If you covet the Erabenimsun’s approval, then at the top of that list is the death of Ulath-Pal and his henchmen. We must have a clean slate.”

On the latter thrust, Ainab seems to not conform as steadily.  
“His…henchmen? I’m less resolved in the death of the Gulakhans, Azhedi. We don’t want to stagnate the tribe, do we?”

But the Wise Woman is hardline, committed to her paradigm.  
“It has to be done. They are too subservient and true-hearted to the Ashkhan. They’ll never give ground.”

The lines in the charred earth are drawn, though not explicitly out of an inherent enmity. This is a borderline familial division, which runs into the core of their beings. Killing the Ashkhan is one thing, but slaughtering the Gulakhans that purely follow orders too?  
Maak ventures to tamper with their mental strain.  
“Let us say this is the conclusion we’re led to. Then let me paraphrase myself from an earlier conversation – who will take over in the aftermath? One must ascend to the seat, no? If we are to prevent a schism.”

The young woman expectantly looks at Ainab, but the huntmaster dithers.  
“Uh…to be frank, I can’t tell you. I predict they’d mark me down as a candidate, Gulakhan or not, but I don’t consider myself to have the prerequisite leadership qualities. I was picked as first hunter by merit. I’m the top tracker, with the dominant inclination for hunts. But the finest warrior? A long shot. That trophy would be afforded another man.”

“Or…maybe a nonstandard entry would be more applicable. Not all leaders call for the apex warrior”, Azhedi coaxingly points out.

“Hmph. Debatable. That is the definition of an Ashkhan, Azhedi, and you know it. He must stand to protect the tribe.”

“I would argue that wisdom, foresight and flexibility are also of paramount worth.”

Ainab gains an inattentive expression, testing the notion.  
“I’m…unsure anyone would use those terms for me.”

Azhedi, perhaps having spoken too highly of him, rolls her eyes.  
“Not you. I was talking about me.”

He and his trio of hunters now all blink in concert.  
“…what? You? You’re suggesting…we pick _you_ as Ashkhan?”

“Bank on it! I’ve got the skills and the knowhow, as well as perception unmatched.”

Where did thus surge of conviction emerge from? Azhedi has never been a prolific blowhard.  
“I…don’t know what you wish us to say.”

“That you’re with me, naturally! We must be united in this, to contest Ulath-Pal. We have to illustrate to the rest that we are unyielding and immovable, transcending his might.”

“And our alternative is to elect _you?”_ Innately, he peeks at the outlanders. “Did they put you up to this? Is it this ‘Nerevarine’s con to upend the tribe?”

Jollain is moderately taken aback.  
“…hold up. What? What in Oblivion kinda skewed shit is that?”

“No, you fool!”, blasts Azhedi. “This is me, all me! I came with this offer to them, in good faith. Our tribe requires change, Ainab. We’re bogged down in a spiral of self-destructive violence and shortsighted, bloodthirsty zeal. If we do not reform and adapt, Manirai’s omen will be made real. What we need isn’t another warmonger, but a spiritual and sagely guide. I boast the lengthiest and most substantial education on these fields.”

" _But you are no warrior”_ , Ainab articulates, a point that it would appear his hunters is in accord on, an angle which the outlanders were afraid of. “I realize you object to it, but a criterion for the Ashkhan is that he has to possess a strong and tenacious fist, to shield the tribe in times of emergency. You can’t take the role of this warrior-leader, as you are not fit for the task. And you’re a woman.”

Azhedi is visibly outraged by it.  
“Watch your mouth! I can fight, dammit! You’ve seen me do it!”

“Sure, but are you the be-all and end-all of the Erabenimsun, cut out to lead us through thick and thin, to seize our enemies by storm? I don’t trust you are.”

“Guarshit! So I’m a woman – and what? The men in our tribe’s inner circle have clearly demonstrated that they’re all incompetent arses! All except you.”

The hunter snorts and shrugs his arms with a tinge of glibness, his voice now lifted in volume.  
“Oh thank you _so much_ for that backhanded clap on the shoulder.”

“I was being sincere!”

“Sincerity laced with arrogance!”

“Alright, knock it off!”, Jollain steps in between. “We hear ya, you’ve got lotsa rubs to iron out once this is over. But you know when that’s not? _Right fucking now_. Because right now, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. So, bury the axes for like a day or two, okay?”

“Indeed”, Maak joins the chorus. “Let’s delay the arbitrating for now. More critically, we have to assess whether the plot has any framework to build upon whatsoever, which means scouting. If you escort us to tribe’s camp, I can brace myself to conduct such an errand.”

“Then I’ll go with you”, Ainab tells him. “I have superior traversing capability in this land, I bet. And If you genuinely fancy a shot at assisting us with Ulath-Pal…well, you’ll want one from our tribe at your disposal.”  
He decelerate a fraction, in order to side-eye Azhedi.  
“Unless our dear Ashkhan to-be protests?”, he asks, voice thick with sarcasm.

She offers nothing but a frown.  
“Let’s get it underway then”, Maak agrees.


	46. At custom's bladepoint (part 04)

Excursions through the roadless patterns of the wastes is a recurring slog, one that depletes the mind by sheer virtue of the heat and the torrid crux of its tone. But if one accompanies the ashlanders, that does somewhat soften the ecological blow, as though they have such a tight grasp of this realm’s disposition that they can sift out marginally more alleviating slices.

The Erabenimusun camp can be traced to a natural, but fairly defensively bolstered nook in this mess, with a decent amount of space for all the tents, paraphernalia, and livestock that they can account for, which is predominantly herding-guar for the last category. The insertion into this site was meant to sculpt an organic barrier with which to ward and camouflage the tribe from exterior perils that could feasibly threaten them. Additionally, the terrain administers desirable posts for sentries, which is less than optimal for outside observers.

Thankfully, in the case of the outlander group led by Jollain, Ainab knows his way around every tiny curve and chink that this camp has been levelled into, as he helped set it up a few months ago.  
Though he had assumed an outlander as a tagalong would be cumbersome and noisy, Ainab had to adjust his preconceptions pertaining to Maak-Veh in a snap, for the argonian is on a whole separate level. Maak is a sly one, prowling and winding through the passages and landscape as if he wasn’t even there. Is he just inherently perceptive or has he already oriented himself past these crusts of dust?

Ainab does not completely abide the mission to progress, as he demands to be lent a few more essential variables. As they enter a rift in the rocky hills, he rotates and stares acutely at the argonian.  
“Before we get in there, we have to talk, you and I.”

Maak is crouching and his reptilian eyes thin in quite a salient fashion, but he otherwise remains neutral.  
“I see. Feel free to continue.”

“Who are you? And what brought you here?”

The argonian exhibits no traces of reeling or shattering motions. In fact, he seems coolheaded, collected. Could be that he foresaw this outcome, or he’s simply got a dynamic frame of mind.  
“I’m a friend and trusted companion of Jollain, the one you call ‘Nerevarine’. We’ve travelled in concert for well over a year now. We’ve cultivated a solid degree of confidence in that period.”

Ainab twirls his hand dismissively.  
“Yes, fine, but that is trivial details at best. _Who_ are you, though? If this bosmer is truly the Nerevarine that everyone here makes a spectacle out of, I must know what sworn followers she has.”

The displeased frown on Maak would imply he doesn’t fancy a segment of this mandate.  
“Well, to start with, I wouldn’t stage myself as a ‘follower’. I am indisputably loyal to those I regard as friends, but I do not view her as a subject of legend or a prophet. As a general rule, I am up to any task that is relative to our safety.  
In terms of my history, like you, I was once an occupant of the wilds, formerly a master hunter and weaponmaster in service of the King of Black Marsh. It’s the land to the south of Morrowind, if that eludes you.”

“It doesn’t. I know it’s where you lizards are native to.” Maak scowls, but Ainab pays it no mind. “But ‘formerly’? Then what changed?”

Maak’s eyes stray and align with the grime below them, towards the camp, though they glimmer with a faded value as he sighs from his nostrils.  
“The river of life had other agendas in store for me, and as such, I flowed to Vvardenfell. In spite of how dearly I miss the swamps – expressly in this unforgiving land – I trust this was a constructive end.”

“And do you have faith in the Nerevarine, that all the fanfare is authentic?”

Now, Maak veers at him with redoubled clarity.  
“I confess that the Nerevarine is…an anomaly to me. Your systems of belief are not mine. But that does not actually matter. What I do put stock in is the imminent threat of Dagoth Ur and his ghoul army. We’ve already spotted and been accosted by a subset of those monsters and they are nothing to scoff at. If Vvardenfell as a unit doesn’t marshal an army to contend with him, it wouldn’t defy his willpower for long. This tale of the Nerevarine strikes me as one that many revere and which hits home, stirs the hearts and minds of the people. If it is what cements unity on the isle, so be it. The granularity of the myth to me on a private metric is immaterial.”

Ainab is given pause, deliberating on this rather logical response, before he inclines his head.  
“That is a…pragmatic view, one I can respect. It sounds as if it is in keeping with a survivalist outlook, a principle I myself live by.”  
With some of the tension now mitigated, Ainab figures he can begin to open up.  
“To keep you updated, I have to say that, Azhedi honestly being ordained as the Ashkhan is an extremely lengthy stretch, unless she pulls off a real stinger. “

Maak lifts his shoulders, unperturbed.  
“I don’t really care who rules your tribe. Not as long as you vow to combat Dagoth. He is the connecting dot which you must heed to manage. And whatever the case or person you uplift, it is not my place to prompt or govern how you go about it. I’m fully aware that outlanders shouldn’t interfere in this subject.”

Hearing it takes a weight off Ainab’s heart and he bows his head.  
“I’m appreciative of this ideology. Most outlanders never care or listen.”

“I know the feeling”, he states suitably, but does not elaborate.  
“Anyhow, should we press on with the scouting?”

“Ah, yes. This way.”

He escorts Maak past the outermost defenses, to a hill at the northwestern edge of the backdrop. From afar, the argonian gets to distinguish the formidable bulwark, at least for nomads. They don’t have proper walls, as that would be unwieldy to carry everywhere, but the design of the place is suffused with ingenuity. The tents are impeccably aligned to cash in on the rocks and spires, which are nigh impossible to scale, giving the far end natural barricades versus posterior assaults. Moreover, they’ve rolled up a cluster of boulders and littered gaps with traps that are on the cusp of imperceptible. If attacked, they have prepared notches on several of the rocks for archers to climb up and gain altitude on their adversaries. A heap of portable, dense and stable shields, of chitin-make, can be brandished by villagers on cue, to safeguard themselves or their guardians against arrow rain.

“This is a remarkable setup”, Maak acknowledges.

“I can imagine so, but from us, it’s expected. We are fighters, consistently honed for war. That said, every single route hasn’t been stuffed. Even our clansmen know that no fortification is 100%. The space we’re standing on right now for one, is a thinly veiled blind spot.  
However, for a more seamless and effective entry, I advocate for a thin lane on the opposite side, near the southwest. The hills are taller on that end and because of the bulkier yurt of the Ashkhan, our protection is in fact downgraded there.”

Maak lends his eyes to that conclusion, identifying his angle, but soon directs himself towards the center point of the camp.  
“Your tribe is quite sizable.”

Ainab nods, a modicum of pride grafted to it.  
“Most numerous of the Vvardenfell ashlanders.”

“Hmm. I’m under the impression that, even with our diverse range of talents, we can’t fight them all in one offensive. They would retaliate and outnumber us.”

“Arguably, yes, but that won’t become a factor. If our people were to realize that a power struggle is going down, the bulk of them would stand aside. Against a common enemy, we assemble on one front, but here, it is so hazy that it’s best to wait it out. I would too, were I not one of the tangled parties.”  
Discussing this topic, getting to fathom Maak, Ainab is now assimilating better into the concept of vying with Ulath-Pal, more than he had previously, in part as they may legitimately stand a sliver of a chance. But…  
“I should inform you outright – my sentiment is that myself and our hunters should not stand with your team in a straight onslaught.”

Maak leans his head to the side inquisitively.  
“Oh? You have your own appraisal?”

“I do indeed. Instead, we should capitalize on the fact that I’m not yet under any scrutiny. My hunters are loyal to me and will join if necessary, for they don’t trust Ulath’s judgment any further than Azhedi or I. If we devise a move from within the camp, we can disarm and incapacitate who we’re able to reach, once the signal is sprung. This would minimize casualties across the board. You would prefer to have as many skillful warriors against Dagoth as is achievable, yes?”

The argonian shrugs patiently.  
“I see no issue with this offer.”

“The real tenuous element lies with the battle on Ulath-Pal himself.” Out of thin air, a sight materializes in his peripheral vision, which he gets a bead on. “Ah, what a coincidence. There is he now, out in the open.”  
He points his finger at a massive warrior, a dunmer to rival Tayerise’s immensity and potentially beyond. He easily protrudes amongst his peers with these dimensions.  
“For a good chunk of years, people earnestly speculated if he had the blood of orcs in him, you know.”

Maak has no stake in idle gossip, but he is intrigued by the cut of Ulath’s jib. He doesn’t ooze with concern, however.  
“The largest rock tumbles the hardest.”

“Be that as it may, Ulath does possess the skills to back up his assertions.”

“Excluding his stature, what makes him so intimidating then? Has he never lost a fight?”

Ainab’s center shifts to Maak.  
“Oh no, he has, but it’s his obstinance and ferocity which grant him a leg up. He never surrenders, never folds. He’ll continue rising and resisting until death’s shadow devours him.”

The argonian, for whatever purpose, huffs unimpressively.  
“I get the hint. I’m acquainted with his particular sort. In order to best him, I presume it’s favorable to not enlist the expertise of any outlander to duel.”

“Aye, we’re on the same page. It’ll present the grandest sections of the tribe with the wrong image. They may not all tilt into his court, but none would be keen on an outlander somehow attempting to bring us freedom, Nerevarine or not.”

“Fair enough. But who would be an apt competitor? Tayerise could work, no?”

Introspectively, Ainab tries to visualize her as he brushes the back of his hand over his nose.  
“She’s the dunmer in your circle?”

“Yes, and Jollain’s romantic partner. She has a record of plenty of years amid Camonna Tong and the Fighter’s Guild, standing as one of the most gifted warriors I’ve ever encountered. Plus, she hails from the Ahemmusa tribe.”

When catching this, Ainab looks more enthused.  
“That is…not bad. I’m leaning towards this alternative now, but let’s not be overly hasty. A woman with that type of strength could be needed elsewhere. We’ll have to figure something out.”  
  


* * *

  
Coinciding with this deliberation, Jollain is seated in the company of Vaziri, Tayerise, Amnet and Azhedi a few hundred meters off the premises of the tribe’s camp. The hunters that attended Ainab were dispatched to the eastern edges, for an expanded survey of the ongoing scene within. This didn’t leave much for the women, even though Jollain predicted that she could’ve done a helluva better job of it, but Maak insisted. If they bork it, at least the group on the whole won’t be punished.

Jollain has the guar alongside her, virtually lying propped up onto her side. As they loiter without a ton of activity, he soon nudges his big head on her leg, smacking his lips a bit. She gets the basis for this trick, that he’s prodding her for a specific treat.  
“You want a snack, do ya? Alright then.”  
She smiles and moves the hand that was caressing his scales, so she can pick up a few pieces of dried clementine from her pocket.  
“Here you go.”

He nuzzles into her shoulder and licks her cheek in gratitude, before he digs in. It impels a giggle in the bosmer.  
While watching it, Azhedi’s lips bend slightly in an upturn as well, finding the image rather endearing.  
“He appears to really like you”, she notes.

“Yeah, he does”, says Jollain, rubbing her nose against Amnet’s head. “Don’t rightly know why, but ever since I got here, guar kinda get along with me for whatever reason. Never met animals like them where I grew up, but I’ve learned to love ‘em. They’re adorable, like a scaly mix between a dog and a horse.”

Azhedi snickers.  
“That’s an unconventional manner for them to act around outlanders, but it’s pleasant to hear. And a good sign too – the guar are creatures of Morrowind, inextricably linked to it. If they are in truth inherently drawn to you in this fashion, then it can only be a beneficial token that you belong here in this land. The stars have designated you after all.”

“Well…yeah, I guess. Sorta wish they’d been more selective.” Jollain rights a few capricious strands of hair that went dancing in the wind and trains her eyes at Azhedi.  
“What about you? How are you getting along? Ready for all this nonsense to get spiking? Like, suddenly being dumped into a cart that says ‘Nerevarine’ on it, I know exactly how tough it’s gotta be.”

The inexperienced Wise Woman scratches her arm and plants her gaze at the ground.  
“I…am not given to bellyaching, especially in the face of such mindboggling labor as you partake of, but…I know it’s not a drop in the sea. But be it the best or the worst of circumstances, I believe I have to be set, for us to endure.”

“But this surrounds more than just survival, doesn’t it? Leading a full tribe sounds like a humongous burden.”

Azhedi, with a weary smile, shrugs lightly as well.  
“Oh yes, I know this, perhaps more than anyone. The Wise Woman in our society can essentially be styled as the second leader of a tribe, and despite not having completely borne the rank for long, Manirai lectured me in every single piece of principle that it would incorporate. If nothing else, I’m prepared to trust enough in myself that I can. Should I not rise to the challenge, my tribe and home will be in jeopardy. And…I can’t lose them.”  
Musingly, she puts her hands together and pitches her eyes up to the skies.  
“The Erabenimsun requires a revolution, a transformation for foreboding times. I know your friend Tayerise here does not share my sentiment, but I have to concede that it has grown drastic.”

Tay, somewhat apprehensively, is sitting with her axe in her lap, fidgeting with her fingers over the tip.  
“I…didn’t specifically utter those words.”

“Sure, I can’t very well forego assertions of that effect, but so what? The lethal danger that Ulath poses to everyone, both in and outside the tribe, is by far more damning.  
But on the other hand…” She is suddenly rendered visibly ill at ease. “What upsets me is Ainab’s revelation. I could’ve never conceived of a prospect where he wouldn’t find me credible enough for this.”

“Well…it’s not every day this is how it plays out. You hear of the rare Wise Woman ruling in place of good warriors, but…”

“I know, I’m not stupid. I’m aware of how abnormal, nigh on heretical it comes off, but…Ainab has been close to me for years, all the way back when I was young, and he was not enormously older than me either. He continuously supported me, jumped through hoops to encourage and champion my accomplishments. As I struggled to grapple with my position as the apprentice, he stood by me. Whenever he found me demotivated, he’d prod and mentally drive me onward, to keep up until I had it. For him to toss me aside so vehemently now is…unbelievable.”

Seeing Azhedi take on such a gloomy exterior awakens compassion in Tay’s heart. In earlier chains of this incident, Tay technically straight up repeated disturbances which others had espoused, possibly for generations. But what if she was too abrupt?  
Maybe it is time for a reversal. She’s taken not merely by the determination, but the fundamental courage of it all, how Azhedi is stepping up to the plate, come afflictions and hardships.  
“This is an unprecedented deed, but if you need someone to pitch in, I’ll be there.”

It’s not purely Azhedi who’s bewildered by this confession, but Jollain as well.  
“Huh? I thought you weren’t too happy on this resolution, cutie.”

“I realize I wasn’t hugely…supportive in our initial discussion, but I hadn’t turned and meditated on this feature at that point. Now, I can put myself in Azhedi’s boots and stand for it. If you press the issue, I’ll raise my voice for it.”

As they steer and patiently await Jollain’s word too, the bosmer elects to play along.  
“I’m not ecstatic to jump into any foregone conclusions on drama I’m so poorly informed in, but…yeah, it goes without saying that I’m on your side. But, ya know, also don’t wanna bully your peeps into one side of the coin or the other. I’m no ashlander and I never will be. That’s just a fact of life.  
But if you’ve got a taste for leadership, then yeah, you can betcha I’d put my gold behind a woman who’s like, pretty decent.”

Azhedi smiles brilliantly.  
“Amazing! Your outpouring of reinforcement is…deeply validating. I swear to do my utmost to be worthy of the both of your patronages.”

“Uh, just…make sure we don’t all have to visit the Divines after this and we’re square.”


	47. At custom's bladepoint (part 05)

From an outsider’s perspective, it would be easy to labor under the idea that today is like any other day for the Erabenimsun in the landscape of Molag Mar, to carry out the necessary workloads in order to survive. But a more potent and keener eye would catch onto the rows of high tension at the peak, how the silence of the main mass is really inflating the unspoken sides that are forming, the inappreciable polarization.

For many, the question it all comes down to is whether they can place their fealty and reliance wholesale behind Ulath-Pal’s dictates. This would not have been a hitch a few years prior, but the Wise Woman Manirai’s death has sparked the shadows of embers. It’s far shakier to glean if anyone will lash upon this strain, however. He is after all the Ashkhan, their crowning warrior. Taking him on up front is no job for wavering.

But as the sun lapses to lofty altitudes before being obscured by meddling moody clouds, the procedure of this day segues, as the caravan of fate bears down on them.  
Ulath-Pal, once he’s enacted his authority on a couple of herders and lectured them in how much of the tribe’s future is hanging on the shoulders of their work, a Gulakhan shouts for his attention.  
“Ashkhan! Two n’wah and a guar have reared their heads from nowhere. They’re at the entrance.”

Ulath narrows his wine-colored eyes cautiously.  
“What breed of n’wah?”

“Well, one isn’t n’wah technically, but a house mer. The other is one of those tree-loving mer. Didn’t define themselves in detail, but they did ask to chat with you.  
Oh, and on top of this, they’re pretty well-armed, more than ordinary travelers. Allegedly, they crossed all the way here without aid.”

The Ashkhan’s brow crinkles as he mulls this report over. What could’ve conceivably brought two outlanders all the way to their doorstep? Is it urgent? Are they agents of the accursed Empire? He’d rather not have any dragon spies here…  
At any rate, he nods avidly at his underling.  
“Let’s get our eyes on these outsiders then.”

At his behest, the Gulakhan escorts him to the entrance, as he would not face the unexplored in private. Just beyond the boundaries, their visitors are holding tight.  
From the onset, he can’t proclaim them to be visually discouraging – one is decidedly a bosmer, given her compact stature and light brown skin, with an exceptionally tall and well-built dunmer woman no more than an arm’s length away, along with a guar. The paint and build on the final f’lah makes him approximate it as a battle-drilled beast.

On the opposite side of the road, they bear witness to an absolute chunk of a man, built hulkingly and honed for combat. Ulath’s skin is a flint grey, his shoulders broad and limbs thick. Boots, gloves and chest piece are all well-crafted bonemold, completed with a massive two-handed axe, clearly not of ashlander-make, but likely forged under the hammers of Redoran smiths. An object of conquest, perhaps?

“Were you misdirected or stumbled onto a faulty crossroad, outsiders?”, he asks them in his gravelly voice. “This is the camp of the Erabenimsun. N’wah find no welcome here. Supply me with a good reason or I’ll have my men riddle your bodies bloody with arrows.”

The bosmer glances meaningfully at her friend and spreads her hands haplessly.  
“Just like she said.” They hold for a reply, and the same elf takes a step forward, a few fingers tapping the hilt of one blade at her belt. “Uh, you guys might wanna hold off on the blood hunger for like a second.” Mysteriously, she then clears her throat as if to prepare for a speech, puts a hand aloft and waves.  
“Well met, people of Erabenimsun! My name is Jollain and uh…I’ve come far and wide to confer and bring a message. The tribes of Urshilaku, Ahemmusa and Zainab have determined me as the holder of the resurrected spirit of Lord Nerevar, the Moon-and-Star – the Nerevarine. The goddess of dusk and dawn has bid me to unite Vvardenfell against a common foe, Dagoth Ur. I come to petition for your aid.”  
In a slightly awkward fashion, she peeks at her dunmer companion again. “…did that sound convincing? I’ve been practicing, but…”

The immense skepticism oriented at them was, of course, a reaction that the outsiders had patently envisioned. The guarded apprehension and the disquiet do not decrease; if anything, it ramps up. This is when Ulath-Pal moves ahead and laughs, right in her face. The noise has a domino effect, breaking the ice for his fellows to join in the gibing act.  
“Oh, Ancestors preserve me”, he cites in between chuckles. “You two must be the most ridiculous n’wah we’ve ever confronted. That you would break something so filled with entitled deceit is…almost funny.”  
The humor all evaporates as he wrests the hilt of his weapon and pulls it forth.  
“But I’m overjoyed you’re here, for I would gladly capture and snap your necks, so your corpses can be displayed for all n’wah who dare follow your example in trespassing, and for the feeble morons in the other tribes to appreciate their own folly.”

Noticeably, Jollain doesn’t strike them as disproportionally upset or jittery. She just shrugs and peers at Tayerise.  
“Hey, they can’t fault us for making every effort to bridge us, right?”

Ulath is already dictating terms for his people.  
“Alright, archers, post up at the ridge and nock your arrows. I want a decent angle for this show, to see if they prefer to run or weather every shot with feigned bravery.”

“Actually, pal, I reckoned this is where it would sign off. Lucky that we got ourselves vitalized for that specific resolution, right?”

She whistles, a signal which renders at least Ulath temporarily immobile, out of a magnified combat instinct. But he doesn’t have the space to orchestrate a counter-maneuver, for an outer distraction sets off.  
Unbeknownst to the ashlanders, it is heralded by way of Vaziri’s flashy spells, a hail of mini flames that do very little damage as they smash into the center of the camp, but causes a ton of discord among the startled tribesmen who don’t know how to offset it. Two of the guards stationed on the outer perimeter also get knocked on their asses, as Vaziri jumps in and telekinetically projects them afield with an alteration spell, bouncing inside the camp.

With the magical flourish, Ulath can draw no other blatant verdict.  
“Blast them. These n’wah are consorting with Telvanni!”, he announces with gusto. “Shore up our defenses! Prepare for wizard onslaughts!”

Jollain could discredit this conceit and its misapplication, but she neither has the room nor the will for it, as she’s soon contested by a couple of his loyal fighters and a shallow maelstrom is brewing in the heart of the tribe, aimed at the outlander scum.  
“Oh, you wanna party? Alright, come get some!”, she unleashes as she brandishes her weapons.

Though a Gulakhan and some of his troops endeavor to rush and disable Vaziri from the fight at her elevated post, these warriors run into a second snag, as a small, procedural rain of arrows drop over them from the southwest. On this rise sit Azhedi and Maak-Veh, who launch as many projectiles as they can muster, with borrowed bows by Ainab’s hunters. Even if they’re overarchingly blind shots, they don’t carry the intended effect to strike up harm, but rather to divert and warp discipline.

In light of this diffusion tactic, Ulath is forced to split his available soldiers and deploy some away from the Nerevarine, to instead target this new threat. But his inauspicious moment isn’t over, for this is a cue that another faction is called to act.  
Ainab and his hunters ignite their own ploy as a few warriors sprint past them. The hunters jump at them, in swift succession disarming and incapacitating them.

The Ashkhan stares at it all with utter disbelief on his face. His First Hunter was one of the last on the list he’d ever suspect of this type of design.  
“Ainab, you s’wit! What is the meaning of this?!”

The First Hunter rises, a sword in each hand as he regards his so-called leader defiantly.  
“Justice. You’ve violated too much of our tribe’s honor already. You’ve murdered our Wise Woman and protesters in our midst, our own people. We can no longer stand shiftlessly by and watch! Your time as Ashkhan is at an end, Ulath-Pal.”

Ulath breathes in slowly and deeply, his glare practically being set ablaze.  
“You…maggot! This is treachery, you lousy horse-licker! Your head is next on the chopping block!”

Before Ainab can retort, a third voice does it for him, from the southwest.  
“Then what do you label your misdeeds as, Ulath? Is slaughtering innocents from your own tribe not betraying the principles our ancestors devised?”

Bearing his gaze to peer out over the hills, he lays his eyes on a figure that he’d thought he’d finally gotten rid of, making his fingers clench the hilt in his hand.  
“Well well, if it isn’t the misshapen little runt who thought she was too good to be Wise Woman.”

Azhedi frowns in distaste.  
“I would never be too proud for this role, as it was a _privilege_ to be the apprentice, but I refuse to spiritually guide a man who’s so self-congratulatory that he’ll only hear his own words!”

“I did wonder where the hunters I laid out had gone off to, but I imagine they’re likely dead by now.”

“You’re mistaken. We spared the bulk of them, as they were doing nothing but following the orders of a madman.”

Ulath huffs, most justifiably to mock her.  
“You have guts coming in here and accusing me of crimes. If anything, you’re the biggest double-dealer of all, working with _outlanders_ as opposed to your own brethren!”

“Hah! Not only are you outright _wrong_ , but the most resentful in our entire tribe of our traditions! Jollain was confirmed as the Nerevarine by three other tribes and the mark of the Moon-and-Star decorates her face, yet you won’t even entertain the premise of testing her per our own rites! You claw at Nerevar reborn by striking her.”

Ulath cracks up once more, flirting with a cackle.  
“This is nearly comical! You also rely on these bald falsehoods as fact? And you dare brand yourself a ‘wise woman’.”

“And what would you at all know what it means?! You’re a murderer! You killed Manirai in cold blood, our spiritual heart and center!”

“I sloughed off another _turncoat_ , you mean. An outdated imbecile, who didn’t know her place.”

Azhedi’s expression oozes with not just shock, but horror.  
“You…you’re a monster!”

Ulath lodges the axe over his shoulder, puffing his chest up unwaveringly.  
“I am the Ashkhan of the Erabenimsun, having achieved this position fair and square by our customs, which you so strictly esteem. I’m the sole person in this damn tribe who’s reasonably lucid to grasp what the people must do to reclaim our land and cast out these fucking n’wah invaders!”

“You can’t-“

“ _Shut up!_ I’ve had enough of this yammering. Gulakhans, warriors and defenders at large! I command you to kill these enemies of the Erabenimsun! This is a mutual quarrel and we must rise as one!”

But precisely as Ainab had prognosticated, as the larger toll of the tribe wise up that this is an internal spat – and between leaders of all trades at that – they don’t intervene. The majority stand aside and wait as the Gulakhans and a few more Ulath loyalists clash with outlanders and the hunters who weigh in with Ainab. Ulath’s is more plentiful, but not by much.

A full forward fight ensues between the two, where Jollain is the prevailing foe for some of the Gulakhans, but she doesn’t stand alone.  
“Amnet, get in behind Jollain and help her!”, yells Tay.  
The guar yips mildly and then roll up next to the bosmer, barreling into the side of an unsuspecting dunmer.

These two do make for an excellent coordinated team, however, as they’re both relatively fast and can creep up on their respective foes while one is holding its attention and then disorient it with an unannounced flanking hack.  
The ultimate ambition for this battle is not to eliminate or cripple the tribe’s core, numbers or capacity, but to cut off Ulath and potentially sever those Gulakhans who pose a threat beyond satisfactory levels.

Jollain has through the year or more she’s spent on Vvardenfell grown remarkably talented in combat, but she does cling to a faint adversity on the whole ‘nonlethal’ portion.  
She does not have to wallow in solitude, though, for assistance emerges in the shape of Ainab, who has left the side of his hunters to flatten some of the Gulakhans directly. He does exhibit a tendency to utilize ranged weapons, but as First Hunter of the Erabenimsun he has pervasive training with his bonemold swords, which is what he matches up against his opponents here, as he lunges at them from a dissimilar vector, generating amplified startlement.

But there are extra allies that come to reinforce Jollain, for Maak has dashed across the battlefield, past their adversaries, and now glides in seamlessly with his spear, barely in time to stave off a fistful of jabs that were meant for the bosmer. He whirls his spear to parry a high attack, punches one enemy away and disarms the other with a spinning kick. Nearby, yet again, Ainab is in mild awe at the argonian’s nimble and seasoned finesse. The disorder of battle has to be a secondary residence for him. The hunter finds it…invigorating to observe.

In the midst of all this heat and wreckage, Ulath does not deprive himself of participation, for of course in the blaze of war is where he thrives, where his thirst soars. But though he chases a worthy rival, the one he effectively collides with is the woman who sets against him personally – Tayerise. She brings up her battleaxe and blocks his grander one, as they almost tacitly bump heads.  
Ulath is indignant at first, gritting his teeth in a flash of frenzy, but only until he inspects her visage, her physique, pinning her down as balanced, stalwart and above all, a juicy mark for his fervor.

“A mere house shalk fancies a bone fide match with a warrior of the wastes, does she? This should be greatly entertaining.”

Tay bristles and swirls her axe, deflecting both of their weapons, so that she may ram her shoulder into his hulking chest, retreating no more than a couple of meters.  
“I am Tayerise of the Ahemmusa and your voice does not symbolize all of us.”

For starters, he looks properly surprised at her admission, but then laughs heartily.  
“Hah! One of the measly herders to the north, is it? You’re out of your depth here, f’lah. You delicate prey is exactly why the house dreg have smothered us for so long! Your time is over!”

Tay curves her axe and navigates it in a duel-ready posture, her light red eyes fixated on his.  
“Are you about to yap all day or should we fire this wager off?”

Ulath grins and holds his axe diagonally in front of him.  
“You’ve got spirit at least! I respect that. Won’t prevent your head from ending up on a pike later, but maybe you’ll get me to reminisce on this day.”

And with no added fanfare or derision, they initiate a flux of strife and narrow incisions. As Tay’s axe exchanges blows with Ulath’s, the spiky tumult of it blasting in their ears, the rest of the world fades into the background. It’s all up to her emphasis and specialization, as well as persistence, to undergo and supersede the jeopardy he poses. She may be the sole fighter on this field that they can hope for to achieve a victory that everyone can tolerate.

In the meantime, Azhedi means to cut deeper into the battle, joining the hunters’ side versus the loyalists. She’s not an expert combatant, but knows how to handle herself and wielding her staff as a blunt instrument does bear fruit. She routs two of her contenders, one with a sharp blow to the gut and a second with an uppercut swing to the jaw, which knocks them out flat. For now, she conforms to the pleadings of Ainab, to not slaughter her own clansmen. If she’s honest with herself, they’re better off this way, as she would surely incur nightmares of her own tarnished conscience on reflection.

By and large, she’s been schooled by Ainab in how to enhance and maximize her body in engagements of this nature and though she’s by no means immaculate, synergizing with the hunters does wonders for her. But she soon diverts her investment. Her heart and soul starve for a dissonant target, her real rival on this arena, and locks onto the Ashkhan. He is presently preoccupied with the Nerevarine’s beloved, but Azhedi simply cannot permit Tay to pilfer the kill. It has to be hers. Hence, she relocates. Along this path, she stares down at her belt, surveying a short blade she has secured in its sheath.

As if by mental prompting, Tay is mired in an upcoming quarrel, as a couple of Gulakhans eye her.  
Tay isn’t fully humbling Ulath, but this duel is teetering in her lane. He is immense, mighty and hard as nails, but his forte is decisively defense and endurance, not tactics and crafty techniques. Tay on the other hand employs every single routine she was educated in by the Camonna, the Fighter’s Guild and as an agent of the Blades. She can fight speedily, evasively and dirty, if the situation demands it.

The majority of his slashes are straightforward square swats, which isn’t imprudent per se. One good hit and Tay will sustain a big chunk of hurt, but that’s only if. Every occasion that he grunts and lunges, however, she either evades, gets into position to neutralize his blow with a parry or a counter jab, or unhinges his charge with a feint. It is gradually getting under his skin.  
“You damn craven!”, he growls. “Stop squirming and square off like a real warrior!”

She scoffs in exchange.  
“If you believe your clumsy whaling is all a warrior does, you haven’t seen much.”

But this is when the Gulakhans interject, while not necessarily saving him, they do if nothing else liberate him from this aggravating showdown. An entire trio swarm her, requiring Tay to retreat and acquire some room to locate a platform for which to retaliate.  
“Hey! That one is mine!”, he roars at them, but this is but a fleeting gesture.  
Eschewing any more protests, his senses catch onto how a new enemy surges at him and he pivots just barely in time to witness Ainab’s attempt to stab his back. The hunter, while a quick one, is not the war torrent that Tay is and Ulath averts the bash with the hilt of his axe.  
“Piss off. I’m not in a mood for scabs right now, Ainab. Better hop out of my way or be slated to get squashed.”

Ainab glares uncompromisingly at his former leader, impulsively twirling the blades in his hands.  
“I’ve stood aside and complied with your madness for too long, Ulath. We should’ve taken you out years ago.”

“But you couldn’t proceed with it, for you are nothing. Without me, this tribe will deteriorate and decay. I am the Erabenimsun’s strength embodied!”

“You’re a despot and we won’t suffer your existence anymore.”

Ainab charges and scrambles with Ulath, entering an anarchic tragedy of a fight on his part. He makes a good effort of it to begin with, ducking, bobbing and weaving. He’s several inches shorter than the Ashkhan and in general size, he’s like a tiny lizard standing by the heels of a kagouti. That’s not to claim his qualities are unhoned or meager, for spending all those years hunting has clearly taught him how to kill. But stalking a quarry on the wastes and duking it out with one of the largest men on Vvardenfell are two unimaginably separate concepts. In this tangle, he is the prey.

In time, his nerves get the better of him. As Ulath gains the upper hand and presses the offensive, Ainab trips up on a rock and almost falter. Not dire enough to truly careen to the dirt, but it does grant Ulath a gap. The edge of the axe cuts into Ainab’s side, slightly traversing the back, which his thin gear is highly deficient to ward off. A reluctant cry of pain is blurted from his mouth and his whole frame pulses at the ordeal.

Ainab gets on his feet to prepare a defense with one hand, clutching the laceration with the other, but it’s too far gone. Ulath absolutely hammers the sword with his axe a couple of times, nigh provokingly, as if he relishes to illustrate how vulnerable the hunter is. Then, he slashes Ainab’s arm, violently knocks the weapon away and as a finish, boots him right in the chest, which gets the hunter sailing off and plowing into the earth with a tormenting impact.

The Ashkhan’s shadow looms above him, as Ulath looks down with unimpressed eyes.  
“Didn’t I tell you this was your fate? This is my turf, hunter, my realm. Enter at your own peril and demise. By now, you should be aware that I show no mercy to renegades.”

Ainab is still striving to cope with all the agony wrecking his body. Getting sliced open isn’t an activity that he has expended much time for in his life, but although he can rise if he must, it will avail him little here. Ulath would merely drive him back down.  
“You…you’ve cursed us already”, he spits out, a trickle of blood exiting his mouth.

Ulath rolls his eyes.  
“Not you too. Didn’t Manirai’s guff get you the hint? There is no bloody curse, no doom. She was a relic of a bygone era, as was her reign. My epoch has come, to ascend our people to glory! This isle will be ours once again, without filthy n’wah or deranged false gods. A shame you won’t be there to watch, eh?”

He readies his axe for a final, conclusive thrust, to summarily terminate Ainab and the threat he presents, but his prospects fall short of the finish line, for he is tackled from behind. Azhedi literally rams into him and even though her body isn’t huge, her staff in such rapid velocity does push him away more than he might’ve expected.  
As he flips around to fume at his latest offender, Ulath is next to delighted to behold none other than his pursuit, his prized sacrifice, shielding Ainab’s prone form with her own person.

“Azhedi. Stepping out of the shadows at last, are we?”

“I wasn’t hiding. Had to make my way past a wall of your goons. Did you put all those in my course to stall our confrontation, maybe? Funny that.”

Ulath snarls.  
“Did you dream that one up yourself, hatchling? I was staying here awaiting your sorry excuse of an assault. Seems you came in the nick of time, so I can decapitate you both side by side.”

“You won’t touch a hair on his head, you villain. The one and sole adversary you’ll fight is me.”

“Hah! Reckon you can go at me alone? Brave, but ill-advised. Ainab was a taster, but you won’t last beyond being crushed underneath my boot. Better run while you can.”

Azhedi wrenches the hilt of the short sword she had procured earlier and aligns its blade in his direction.  
“This isn’t for show, nor a bet. This is authentic and very real.” She pitches her voice in a louder tone. “I challenge you, Ashkhan Ulath-Pal, into a duel to the death. You versus me, here in this camp.” She stomps the butt of her staff into the dirt.

Like a shockwave, a hush and a deceleration scatters across the camp, infecting every member, as her endeavor gains traction. The hunters completely cease their clash, as do the loyalists. Maak and Tay take down one Gulakhan each, but as the declaration has been issued, they follow suit with the rest.  
Jollain widens her eyes, taking a gander at Vaziri, who’s in her vicinity.  
“Uh, that…wasn’t in the plan. Was it? Was that in the plan?”

The khajiit twists her whiskers.  
“If it was, I was not told.”

Ainab gawks at Azhedi, partially in awe, but predominantly out of terror and puzzlement.  
“A…Azhedi? What are you…?”

“I’m doing what I must”, she responds resolutely.

“This is…madness!”

But his critique is cut short, as Ulath fills the area with a roaring laughter that reverberates throughout the population. He looks jubilant, exhilarated by this challenge. He may be bleeding a tinge – compliments of Tay – but he is undeterred.  
“You shoot for a duel with _me?_ Oh, this is a most generous offer! I accept wholeheartedly! I presumed I’d have to run around searching forever to smush you, but this is an excellent judgement.  
Watch me, people of Erabenimsun, as I eradicate the final obstacle to our brilliant future!”


	48. At custom's bladepoint (part 06)

Conclusion. There is no countdown, no buildup or long-winded rehearsals to be made. As soon as the word was flung and the denouncement put out, formality dictated that they were to get underway. Though, to be completely fair, Azhedi is not at all loath to omit any intermissions or bouts of rest. She doesn’t require it, being fueled by the raging cauldrons of passion. She has dedicated herself to this result, in part for the sake of justice and a brighter tomorrow for her tribe. But under the excuses lurks other subtexts which she won’t bring to light.

Ainab, having been taken out of the fight, is assisted by his hunters and Vaziri to be carried out of range and coated with healing appliances, so that they can suspend the bleeding. As the First Hunter impels his gaze at her, a pleading quirk lingers in its rounded depths, bound to be with fingers crossed that she’ll construe the wisdom. But with regret, he’s aware that she won’t be dissuaded, not as the fate of their people is at stake.

She can’t help but ruminate on the odds of other dawns, what could’ve played out if she had conferred with him previously. Could they have come to an understanding, a joint deduction? She might never get to the bottom of this alternative.  
Regardless, the hunter is not the sole participant to seek her out. The allies she has gathered in this pursuit rally with her – Jollain, Tayerise, Maak-Veh and Amnet. It is the bosmer who introduces their fretfulness.

“How’re you faring? This was kinda off the cuff for us. Was this on your map from the start?”

Azhedi lowers her head, somewhat in shame.  
“I beg your pardon, all of you. I hope you can forgive me, but yes. I had indeed stacked the pieces in this vein. I anticipated this…payoff, that no one would have the window to prevent me. It is…a pity that the costs were nearly too high.”

The larger dunmer frowns disapprovingly.  
“Think this compels a little more than ‘pity’, you know. Your gamble almost got tons of people killed, us and all.”

Jollain pats her lover’s arm.  
“We’ll float by. Punched a lotta worse rides, haven’t we?”

Tay shrugs reluctantly.  
“Perhaps, but still…”

The bosmer levels her eyes at Azhedi anew.  
“But if this was what were you up to from the get-go, could’ve just spilled it. We’d have watched your back.”

“I couldn’t count on it”, says the Wise Woman. “And at any rate, this is a trial which calls upon me overcoming it on my own, for the good of the tribe and Vvardenfell at large. But, of course, I pray to the Ancestors that I haven’t earned the scorn of Azura’s chosen for my impatience.”

Jollain blinks befuddlingly.  
“…huh? Me? Oh uh, no, you’re fine. I mean, you do you. As far as I can tell, our…destiny or whatever, is to help out, not police you.”

Even if she’s a mite miffed, Tay smiles at her girlfriend’s sagely statement and Azhedi bows her head.  
“I am beholden to your wisdom, great Nerevarine.”

“And hey, betcha we shoulda listened to you from the off, right? This Ulath guy is…a nasty prick.” She faces Tay. “He’s a bit of a reminder of uh…Orvas.”

Tay’s brow furrows reflexively.  
“Aye, their attitudes on outlanders and how to realize power does…correlate.”

“I’m unfamiliar with that name”, mentions Azhedi, “but I speculate it’s unimportant too. I must stay with both hands on the matter at work, to drive Ulath to the bitter end, lead him to his grave and afterlife in the Attribution’s Share.”

“Uh, well, you kinda miss a trick on me with daedra talk, but…I’m curious, what’s the lowdown on your strategy? Do you have one on defeating your Ashkhan? Can’t help but notice that uh…well, he’s bigger than you. Plenty bigger, in fact.”

“Yes, I know this as well.”

“Yeah, natch. So uh, how’re you gonna tackle that hurdle?”

A mysterious glint sifts through her eyes, as her spotlight is on her opponent.  
“Don’t worry yourself on this subject too much, Great Khan. I have my ways.”

Jollain and Tay share a suspicious look.  
“O…kay then. Well, toss us a shout if you’re trudging into real trouble, though, will ya?”

“I shall endeavor to try. Thank you for your concern, Nerevarine.”

The bosmer gives her a thumbs up.  
“You bet.”

Tay also levels her hand calmly and touches Azhedi’s shoulder with a harrowing undertone.  
“Good luck, Wise Woman. May Azura guide you, Mephala shroud you and Boethiah tip your blade.”

“By the wisdom of the Ancestors”, Azhedi ends the small prayer. She then dips her head. “Thank you kindly.”

The prearrangements for the fight are short and although Ulath has a dialogue with his Gulakhans to see that they’re all dialed in on what he expects of them, Azhedi sits in silence. She is on the ground, legs folded as she runs her fingers over the ashes of the wastes. In her lap rests the blade she flexed earlier, but she has not provided cause for its entry. She prays in the meantime, to the Ancestors, to the daedra and to ask the wastes for guidance.

Ulath soon nears and grunts.  
“Let’s get this show underway. I’ve important matters to attend to.”

With his self-assured claim, she rises, her gaze teeming with determination.  
“So it shall be.”

The location they have cast as the arena is at the very center of the camp, with the yurts, the cooking fires, the guar pens, everything in their unmitigated home encircling them. Her darker red eyes pierce his, staff in one hand, blade in the other. His great battleaxe presses onto his shoulder and even if his regard for her does not match, his obstinance is befittingly stark.  
She lifts her short sword, hoisting it aloft for all to observe, to follow the bonemold and ebony-make that it is, an antique design, albeit with low chances of being beyond this era.

“Fellow members of Erabenimsun, hear me as I relay the history of this blade. This sword is an heirloom, bequeathed to our former Wise Woman Manirai by her master, which in turn was gifted by the master before them and then the one before that, for seven generations. It was poised to be issued to me on Manirai’s deathbed, in tandem with the title of Wise Woman, decades from now.  
But this was never to be, as you’re all aware. In lieu of this planned and conventional inheritance, I was forced to snatch it from my master’s mutilated body, cut open by our Ashkhan for complying with praxis and her own ideals.”

Ulath stares at Azhedi, devoid of sympathy. Jollain explores the features of the clan members, all somber and introspective, enraptured by the words and significance. It’s here that Azhedi actually sounds and presents like a Wise Woman, the scholar and keeper of lore and codices of the tribe, who is literate in the fables and truths they’ve accrued. It is a potent position to own and Azhedi does a splendid job of being coherent in their hearts.

“Manirai’s spirit will have rest today”, she asserts and lets the sword descend. “I swear to the Dusk and Dawn.”

Ulath sneers.  
“Pah. Pure bleeding-heart gimmicks, the whole lot”, he denigrates. “You’re duping the tribe into your weak-willed and impotent agenda. It will never take the Velothi where we need to go.  
You’ve got a flawed sense of me, girl, and my vision for the people of the wastes. All this violence, all this killing, it carries weight and bears a destination – to root out the corruption that is steadily murdering our culture. Is this not what we should all chime for? An outlook which stays true to who we are, where we may freely revere our ancestors and the true gods of the dunmer, the Good Daedra who Veloth taught us to embrace?” His gesticulation is now taking off more vehemently. “In the modern day, ‘Ashlander’ has turned into an obscene word, a persecuted community who lives by the old ways, as if tradition and the virtues of yesteryear can no longer be applicable in our own damn land! These ashes were trodden on by every dunmer, the isle belonged to those who worship actual _gods_ and not snake-like wizards that enchant the entire population!  
This is who I am and what I endeavor to bring into fruition – the Vvardenfell we all know and adore. But it cannot, as we’ve witnessed for generations, be achieved via peace. The Great Houses understand but one thing – violence. And the n’wah, the poaching outsiders? They encroach and invade, hijack our land, resources and strip it bare. What do you think they will pick up on – hollow pleadings or a blade to the neck?”

His words are not met with scorn or distress, but quiet and contemplation. There are legitimate troubles and offenses that he refers to, which they cannot tune out.  
Azhedi’s brow creases.  
“Why is life such a dichotomy for you? House or Velothi, outlander or native, death or begging. We maintain greater mental faculties than this, you know. There are also superior methods to sway the Houses from being so set in their ways. Negotiation, bartering, lending them assistance. We can grant them evidence of how and why we can dwell in harmony.”

Ulath spits on the soil.  
“Negotiation? Trade?! What fantasy do you reside in, Azhedi? For _millennia_ our people have wasted their lives to coexist with those bellends and what did they gain to demonstrate for their labor? Fuck all! No one ever hears our message, ever stands up for anything we put our faith in. They either turn a blind eye to all atrocities committed against us, or they bow down, take harbor in the shadows rather than raise their voices to the skies.”

“All barring one”, Azhedi intercepts. “Nerevar. The Hortator, the Great Khan. He defended our rights, our places on Vvardenfell and rallied us under a single banner. Together, we fended off hordes of invaders, cried vengeance to the realms of the outlander Divines! And you all neglect that he stands here in front of us today, in the shape of this bosmer!”, she shouts and gestures at Jollain.  
“She has cleared the trial of immortality, of Azura’s cavern, and brought three tribes under her fold, to vie with Dagoth Ur. How can we be blinded to the inevitability she heralds?”

The tribe reflect clues of being swayed by her words, but Ulath snorts and rears his axe to point at her.  
“After I’ve cut you down, she’s next.”

In turn, Azhedi flips her blade around.  
“No. You won’t leave this duel with your life. Fate blows beneath my feet. Dusk has come upon you, Ulath-Pal.”

And that winds up as the commencing shot to go off and provokes Ulath to advance on her, axe primed for shedding blood. Azhedi instinctively recedes a couple of steps, hurriedly rotating the staff in her hand and clutches the sword. His eyes are steadily locked on her face, while hers dart up and down, left and right, reading and parsing his movements, trying to presage and extrapolate where he’ll go off.

Ulath’s prelude is not as alarming as Azhedi had dreaded, but this is predominantly as he opts to measure her skill and techniques. He’s the sort to savor a decent trading of blows, but this is more than your average sortie. Not only is his honor and pride on the line here, but his title and quite plausibly his very life. Is Azhedi even mentally capable of damning him if he’s at her mercy? That’s what he’ll have to discover.

He raises his axe and lays at her with a horizontal swing, momentous by default of his build, but not rapid enough to make it to her, as she ducks and rolls out. Azhedi still runs with a dual wield combo, which isn’t exemplary in her ongoing setup, for she is in general more compatible with a direct line, such as slinging her staff at people. A skirmish of this caliber, in open territory, also does not allow for cunning solutions or environmental forks in the road, in order to take liberties with one’s attack itinerary. Instead, every second is hinging on one’s ability to both fight and kill a person face-to-face, combined with an intimidation value – if you can terrify your opponent, you can break them.

Azhedi won’t grandstand and affirm that she’s unfazed by the threat Ulath represents, but what she won’t permit is for her psyche and body to be crushed by this impulse. Coming off the back of a few more botched axe-thrusts, she attempts to lunge at him, straight on, but that is summarily thwarted by Ulath’s weapon, prior to the Ashkhan embedding his fist into her gut, making her fall fast to the dirt. What a fiasco.

With her front exposed, he tests his first real grasp at her life by throwing the axe high and hurtling it to the ground with enormous speed, the edge hungering for her blood.  
Luckily, Azhedi was not rendered unconscious, nor was her vision diminished in the drop, so she simply glides out of its path and liberates herself, to untouched fields, and gets on her feet with the aid of her staff. If her conveyance was credible, then Azhedi has this fight all mapped out, but whatever the minutia is, she’s struggling. It’s inconclusive whether she miscalculated or if this is rightly part of her long-term tactic.

Had she been a magic-wielder, this episode would bound to be far more painless, but she lacks the prowess. Her skills lay in in the physical and crafting of potions, drinks and tonics, not flinging the abstract. She comes at him with renewed spirit, straight on, vision zeroing in on his abdomen, as well as his axe. She takes a swipe at predicting its intended trail, to slip through his defenses and test some of her own.

The axe mislays her, as she’s quicker than him, but as she tries to bury her staff into his side, he blocks with his wristguard and then arches his foot at her which narrowly overshoots. She seizes this slight rift to circle him and close in, for the first time holding up the blade to feasibly put its edge to work, but she stutters as she distinguishes how he acclimatizes. She substitutes her previous design with bringing her staff up and slapping it into his torso, another meager blow that grazes no more than the surface, but it does vex him, which could be tugged at to unbalance him.

He carries the axe back around, but projects the blunt end at her this time, to pick up the speed of the thrust, hoping to bludgeon her. But Azhedi throws him once more by thinly eluding it, letting it rush over her hair. As his frustration festers, her own confidence propagates, an efficient perk from a morale standpoint, but she also has to take care not to let it soar towards complacency.

Sadly, this is in essence what she accommodates when next she catapults into him, aspiring to batter him with the staff, dodging, weaving and straining her contingencies to pray for a slit to tear at.  
Incidentally, this does in turn afford him an opportunity on her defenses. Her nimble refinement is not equal to Jollain and as she pirouettes in front of him, he eventually stops hunting and takes a crack at stabbing.

Success. In her enthusiasm to surmount his bastion, she completely leaves aside how lethal his strikes are, even by merely brushing their target. The cusp of the blade cleaves a portion of her clothes and rends the flesh at her arm, contributing to the tarnishing of the soil with the first patch of real blood it has retrieved since the preceding combat. The ailing it wreaks is fierce and though Azhedi resists the longing to shriek, she can’t stifle a yelp which leaps from her lips. She can’t stagnate now, not when she’s in the proximity of trouncing this challenge.

Or so she assumes. She rises to resume her progress, but it’s getting under her skin in a very corporeal way. Her body has already languished a tad, which makes foiling his subsequent bash impossible. The single break she catches is the fact that the second impact steered clear from any areas of high priority, delving into her lower abdomen, in a fairly shallow slice. Pain and misery saturate her, and she would do anything to receive a minute of rest or two, but instead of entitling her figure to tumble onto the ground, he wrenches her by the collar of her jerkin and drags her in, so that he may stare into her eyes, with his own snide, elated ones.

“Is this the best you’ve got to lob at me, woman? Here you go playing up your game and yet all I view is a rat who was running blind and craved more prestige than she’s worth. Why Manirai placed any manner of faith in you is beyond me, but her harebrained choices are what trended you to this detrimental seat you’re on now. If you prefer to hold anyone culpable, curse her into your grave.”

He holds the axe to her face as he speaks, but overlooks the fact that she isn’t helpless. She lashes out with her staff for one final-ditch effort. It fails. The length does rap at his body, but he lodges his axe into the dirt to free a hand up, grabs the staff by them stem and wrests it from her grip, only to break it at the midsection. Afterwards, for good measure, he cuts her loose and socks her square in the mug.

She drops to the ground with a heavy breath and a hiss.  
“Weak”, he ejects. “Fangless. Inept. Is this what you thought to bring to oppose your Ashkhan? I was a fool for ever overestimate-“

But for once, her sleight of hand prevailed and as he’s disregarded the hazard she presents, she finally gets a window. With the decent proximity, she can jump up and plunge her sword into his waist, at a splinter in his armor. The undertaking altogether flummoxes Ulath, who somehow hadn’t imagined she had anything more to inflict, that her refuting of his impeccable rigor had divested its steam. His eyes bug out as he dislodges a delayed gasp, taking a faltering step in retreat, until his mind restarts and he can clutch the hilt and yank it out, to hurl it aside.

Meanwhile, a bruised and bleeding Azhedi rises to her feet and disengages slightly. Not to desert the duel, but to allocate herself breathing room and an option to reattain the dislocated staff.  
Ulath inhales, sensing how his health suffered a real chock of damage in the process, but is yet functional, keen to prop himself up and get back to it.  
“So you’re not as boneheaded as you look”, he states with effort, “but one pitiful thrashing of that blade won’t suffice to deny me. You’d be bloody thick to believe otherwise.”

“Am I now?”, she asks cryptically.

Ulath spews out spittle on the dirt, the saliva conflated with splotches of blood. He waves it off, reclaims his weapon and continues straying towards her, axe wired to kill. But something is amiss.  
It’s not until it’s practically overdue that the reality dawns on him of how oblivious he’s been. His body is lagging, his breath a tinge more strained and a whirlpool of tenderness grows across his skin.  
“What…what have you done?”, he croaks.

“It’s come to effect now, has it?” Azhedi wipes the blood off her mouth. “Good. Wouldn’t want our tribe to be alone in its suffering.”

“What did you do?!”

“Easy – I lulled you into a false sense of security. You’re so full of yourself, Ulath, drunk on a presumed invincibility. But you should come to confront something – no one is untouchable. Not me, not Ainab, certainly not you.”  
She recalls a container from her gear and tosses it at him, a tiny cylinder-esque piece.  
“In this was the liquid which I glazed my blade with prior to battle.”

With a darkly glare, Ulath’s breath quickens, his consciousness smoldering.  
“You…you poisoned me?!”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“And you berate me for fostering a lack of honor?! You self-righteous bitch!”

She leisurely twirls the blade in her hand, though internally, she’s striving to restore a quantum of health.  
“The liquid I’ve injected you with isn’t fatal. What it does is dilate receptibility to physical sources and factors – particularly pain. Your sense of touch is aggressively augmented to scale this reaction up. In many intellectual circles, they call it ‘Tactile Enhancement Solution’ or ‘The One Sense Potion’, but I favor the classification amidst Velothi crafters – ‘Boethiah’s Sap’. A worthy namesake, no?”

With everything clicking into place, he trims his stance and roars at her.  
“You’ll pay dearly for this cheat, you witch, I swear!”

“Cheat? You’ve well and truly misinterpreted its construction. All things considered, the daedra would reward me for my ingenuity. Lest you lost sight of it, Boethiah is the god who standardized practices of challenges and duels to our ancestors and champions the perspective that one should capitalize on all tools at one’s disposal. She teaches us that nothing is forbidden in the art of war – not even betrayal. Remember? It vindicated your murder of Manirai and now, your own downfall to boot. Your claim to fame is physical tolerance, is it not? To withstand mountains of agony. I wish to test the range it can be maintained at, when multiplied tenfold.”

To throw a wrench in the tirade, he launches at her in a desperate charge. But Azhedi, in spite of her own injuries, can amass enough energy to move aside, pivot and slam the broken staff into his hip. She makes out the blade in her field of vision, but she can’t pick it up, not before she’s carved her mark on his very spirit. This is cumulative and the whole procedure will exacerbate exponentially.

She narrowly dodges another swipe, kicks at his leg and as he wobbles, smacks him right in the back. To his credit, he grits his teeth and growls, but no screams, to Azhedi’s chagrin. She’s beginning to crave it.  
Ulath never budges, reigniting his continuous stream of obstinate, albeit indiscriminate assaults. He storms at her from the front and shouts as he swings, but misses. A few consecutive advances go astray, but in time, he nails one kick at her gut. In her fall, however, she heaves the staff piece squarely at his face, which blisters on his susceptible skin, tearing at the targeted area.

Azhedi can’t and won’t prolong the trauma, although not due to any benign-minded ideas, but for her own safety; she is not in a fantastic state either. She makes a beeline for the sword, to forestall his chances to salvage it ahead of her. The blood is still marring his leggings, but he lumbers at her. This could prove to be his last great card, a dream in a diminishing future where he can subvert and burn her for this act of disloyalty. But alas, it isn’t to be.

They trade offensive and defensive maneuvers in cycles, blade versus blade, strength onto strength, willpower rending willpower. And in the twilight of the session, Azhedi comes out on top. The heaped bruises, cuts and losses of blood have left his eyes hazed, his legs squirmy. As he lunges the axe at her head, she avails herself of his misery and cuts deep into his hip. There is little he can pull at to divert it and the pain ripples to his interior.

Going forward, Ulath is a wreck. The wounds are mounting up and he soon stands in a pool of his own blood, depleted and some of his limbs shot to Oblivion. In his hour of defeat, he yells at her.  
“You are…shortsighted, Azhedi!”, he chastises. “Your asinine behavior is shameful! Don’t you know? Don’t you all grasp that I built this damn tribe?! Deprived of me, without my judgment calls, my gambits and battle inventions, you would’ve been nothing, a tribe in tatters, which would erode and fizzle out with no triumph or glory!”

Every claim, the full measure of his rhetoric is true, in various respects, none of them can cast that off. But for Azhedi, this is undeniably a circumstance which is transcended by a discordant prospect – pure, unfettered and unspoiled revenge.  
“This is empty talk, Ulath. It’s all your fault we’re fading in the first place! You killed Manirai, my master and a woman I had great kinship with, who tended to the wisdom of the Erabenimsun for over a century! You have conquered entanglements others failed to, shouldered troubles which dozes would submit before, but not a crumb of it frees you from the constraints of leadership. You condemned those who would merely call for our codes of honor to be abided by, that we remain on a scrupulous path. You drew and quartered them for it, and as a result, you must answer for your crimes.”

Finally, he sinks to his knees, forfeiting any final confidence in escaping this incident in one piece. Well on the ground, he coughs drops of blood on the ash, leaking from more than one hole.  
“So be it. Excise me then, oh so-called Wise Woman. But you best be ready for the upcoming afflictions. Boethiah is not open-minded and I could’ve taken this tribe to the ends of the world. He won’t be so lenient.”

Azhedi’s gaze toughens, and her limping notwithstanding, she holds her head up, the blade now maneuvered to his throat.  
“Nor will we.”  
And she slices his throat, a swift cut lacking in excruciation. Better than he deserves, but adequate to please her conscience.

As his shape plummets, she looks up at the tribe, holstering her blade and ingests the regards of her people, their palpable beliefs and sentiments at what was perpetrated here today. She can’t preclude the extent of fear and melancholy at his collapse, for it was unalterable. Not that they were sympathetic to him at any immense levels, not after what he committed. But he was their Ashkhan, one who sought to uplift their culture, no matter the costs. It’s bittersweet, simultaneously a tragedy and an end which had been etched in the stars.

Azhedi carries on standing, even though her body cries out for release, for rest and to crumble until reconstructed piecemeal. But she holds firm as she addresses the masses.  
“Ashkhan Ulath-Pal is no more. His death was a…regrettable necessity. Some of you may dispute my methods and the execution, but the unmistakable truth is that we could never coexist on a manageable plane. I shall…lament the unwarranted course he desired, given how few we are out here, but I won’t grieve his loss. With him, our casualties would have risen to no end, till we lay as long-lost memories.”

She grabs a breather, composing herself for the meat of her speech, the integral crux which might bring them under her wings or fracture the tribe for all eternity.  
“What is asked of us now is to exceed our past boundaries and stances. After all, is this victory, the defeat of Ulath-Pal who was perceived as unbeatable, not a sign? Lord Nerevar is reborn and his incarnation beckons us to join up with a battle for our sheer survival. With the arrival of the prophecies’ components, Vvardenfell is on the cusp of change. But we can’t very well accept this proposition without someone in charge. This message obligates the guiding hand of an Ashkhan to comply with the allocated course. Like everyone else, I had envisioned Ulath-Pal, but he exhibited inherent unreliability, his narcissism subduing his rationality. Who else can bear this mantle? I’m aware that a few of his Gulakhans fell in combat, his immediate picks as successors, but to be honest, his whims have forfeited their value following his vicious disregard for life.”

Silence roams the environs for a few ticks, with tribe members searching among one another, awaiting a solitary volunteer to step up and take on the duty. But no one is affirmed of the answer.  
Eventually, an injured Ainab - with assistance from Maak – hobbles up.  
“Historically”, he says, “if I’m not mistaken, when a duel is proclaimed…the winner ascends as Ashkhan.”

Azhedi smiles warmly at him, but a hush of doubt cascades amid the rest. They know who she is, intimately acquainted with the role she has played in their tribe for decades, but…as the Ashkhan?  
One of Ulath’s former loyalists, now surrendered, speaks up.  
“She may have won, but it wasn’t fair and square. Without that poison…or whatever, she’d be face-first in the dirt now.”

“So?”, retorts Ainab. “Ingenuity is also the feature of a chief. Had he the same affinity for alchemy as Azhedi, their outcomes could’ve been reversed. Every Ashkhan across the ages have not been identical, not carried the same purpose or competence or goals. Ulath had his own and they were entirely bolstered by the philosophies of raw strength and brute force. Perhaps…a new road is in order, to match the rise of the Nerevarine. If there is anyone who boasts a superior alternative, then by all means, share it.”  
As Ainab offers his support, no one opposes the pledge, not in the wake of this display. For all the unconventional aspects and rule-breaking it would signify, they’ve already experienced such an upheaval. What is one more reform?  
“Then by right as First Hunter, and as we are bereaved of a proper Wise Woman, I pronounce you, Azhedi, Ashkhan of the Erabenimsun. May the wastes test you and scatter at your feet.”

She’s marginally rickety, but smiles and bows her head. As Jollain comes up on her position, she all but falls into the bosmer’s arms, but retains her pride with some mild backup, gripping Jollain’s shoulder.  
“It would seem…we shall be attending the battle after all.”

Jollain counters with a curving of her own lips.  
“Heh, yeah. We’d welcome your people there. I for one am gonna be pretty relieved to have someone we can trust unconditionally. Oh, and uh…congratulations.”

Azhedi reverses to the same joyful face, a labored, utterly knackered demeanor that nonetheless swims in solace that it’s over, at least for now. She braved the worst ordeal that her life has ever imagined. Thank the Ancestors.  
To evince her allegiance, she delicately clutches Jollain’s hand and kisses the Moon-And-Star ring.  
“May Azura’s foresight grant us victory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _That particular poison wasn't something I believe exists in-game, but it more or less had a "Weakness to" effect, tuned to the nth degree_


	49. Veins of fate

The blistering cadence of the air, the oppressive weight of the shaded niches, the dust shuffling beneath her soles – it all strikes a chord with her, an extremely haunting one. Jollain has been here already, one too many times. As a matter of fact, her last drop in was supposed to be her final, the last chapter in the book which features her life’s accomplishments. What in Julianos’ ass brought this on? Is this some kind of sick joke? 

She’s present yet again in the labyrinthine and esoteric hallways of Dagoth Ur’s volcanic lair; antique in their inheritance, alien in their formation.  
Wasn’t the potion from that damn pompous old mage Divayth meant to give her some immunity from this rationality-forsaken trash-hole? Could be that they, for good or ill, mistook its potency; or worse, Dagoth’s resourcefulness. 

By plain second nature, she lifts up a hand to her face and combs her complexion for traces of Ur’s stigma, vigorously fondling her cheeks and nose, that her skin hasn’t contorted into a grotesque color or substance. But no, her skin is a light brown and unmarred.  
Oddly, she’s as healthy as can be, so she’s got that going for her. This is…an unprecedented trip, but not all that unwelcoming. If she can retain her own body, she’ll take any solace she can get her mitts on. 

With this ‘generous’ freedom she’s anointed, Jollain sweeps the scenery, to get a grip on whether there’s any measure of escape handy. Quite a long shot, but…  
But no, nothing uncharacteristic is brought to light. She’s been dumped in the same untraceable cavern as she has been borne to repeatedly. She figures it’s gotta be the Red Mountain, but there’s no way to accrue substantial data to back it up. If nothing else, she isn’t shackled to anyone, and for the moment, she’s secluded, though with any hope not confined. There are pathways in contrasting bearings, but if it’s south or west or whatever, she’s none the wiser.

Oh well, nothing to do now but get moving and explore. She has never held a craving to delve and nose around faraway localities, but in these hazy aisles, she has no secondary recourse. It’s do or be done.  
Each footstep bounces and echoes onto the stonewalls, and peculiarly, there are a bunch of lit torches clinging to them, out of her reach. The dust scampers with every meter gained, and the whole area is terribly musty.

Another little clue she’s astounded by is how lucid the dream is at its spirit. The preceding nightmares were not straight up foggy, but she gets the vibe now that her body is also locked in this realm, not her mind alone. That’s some variant of progress, right?  
Intrigued, she pushes her luck and bounds for the wall, to nab one of the torches. With months upon months in the making, her agility has procured a level where she should be able to.

And indeed, she carries through, bouncing up the rockface with her foot and yanks the bottom of the holder. One torch acquired. Not much in way of a weapon, but it provides extended light and…simply makes her feel safer. She’s not about to second-guess the concept of its existence.  
Having control not just of her mobility, but the speed of it too, she jacks up the tempo, sparsely above walking, though not quite running. She doesn’t fancy the future of crashing into one of Ur’s toadies. Not that they can infect her, but they might send out an alarm. Then again, does that matter? This is Dagoth’s dream, his domain. He’s bound to know the ins and outs.

Passing through the corridor, she protrudes her head from its darkness and into the adjacent sector – more mazes, more passageways. Yet no operations, no workers. What on Tamriel occurred here? Is he sticking with a low profile, biding for her in order to strike at her flank? He shouldn’t have to. Clearly he’s not fearful of her, is he? Not unless she has mischaracterized him from the get-go.

And at that second, it stirs. He’s coming, crawling up to her venue, to behold her in all her-  
…hold a sec. Can she…detect him for real? His presence, his being, it’s all in her subconscious. In previous hours, his looming was irrevocably ominous, abrupt, for she didn’t own any options, no liberty. She was his plaything and her ears were his commodity. Possibly further signs of her attunement to his despoiled essence? A bloodcurdling prospect to be sure, but not wholesale unbelievable. She too has transitioned, made and unmade. 

“A foul phase, a fearsome daze. The Dreamer rouses and the Shadow beguiles”, his voice pulses in her head, but the innate agony is vacant. It’s nothing but noise.  
“I invited you, Nerevar, Brother of before, Lord of the Blood diluted. And yet you deny and scorn and do away. Where do I find you next, but here in my garden of tomorrow?”

Jollain cringes and swirls, disclosing his position from exiting a tunnel somewhere in the dark behind her. The golden mask clings to his face and his predominantly naked body is on display. Her hand slip to her belt and she’s actually dumbfounded to discover her weapon attached to it. Has he really fudged this so badly, or what’s wrong? If she’s inadvertently fighting back, then she’s all for it, but one can’t get sluggish. 

“Well lookie here – if it ain’t my old buddy, the mind-masher.” Snapping back at him is…surreal. She’s been a captive without words for months and rather spontaneously, she now has everything. Her built-in response is to be snarky.  
“Listen, I’ve got no love for this shack and I sure as shit wouldn’t ever select it on a list of holiday destinations, but you keep loading me in! If you’d left me alone for once, we coulda both minded our own business.”

Dagoth stops in his tracks at a center point of the room, holding his head high and body upright.  
“Destiny is not a matter to warp into jests and satire. You were guided for the sake of golden dawns.”  
In his backdrop, Jollain heeds how the shadows shift and strafe, bending to his unspoken commands, his raw atmosphere. It reeks of a menacing pungency that seeks to pull her in.  
“You cannot eschew your sacred obligations, the yoke of bettering Tamriel. I have pierced your shroud, the barriers which the usurpers would seek to cast between us to deafen you. Hear my voice, my clamor, Nerevar! I appeal to you with resurgent vitality and thunder, to come bask in Red Mountain! Snubbing shall not be met with the same virtuous indulgence as prior.”

Suddenly, the former direction she delighted in begins to slip – the shadows coiling and pulsating from Ur radiates a pull and limitless rhythmic tremors. First, they arise as an extrinsic element, down at the floor, a demoralizing source she must elude. But with lessened length, the drums convert from outside, to trespassing in her skull. Their fluctuation taps at such an advanced resonance that it enervates her motoric functions and overthrows them. She strives to combat it and dissolve his sorcery, but it’s a fool’s errand.

As she slumps to her knees, he gradually, with an air of immutable majesty, floats to her.  
“And so, we shall have our moment, our feast to a world with a god’s fragrance.  
Your inimical actions bewilder me, Nerevar. At one solstice, we were in accord of Resdayn’s outlook, of posterity with no end, no inhibitions, no boundaries! Why must we shed each other’s blood, brother to brother, when our hearts beat with the same pitch? You are schooled in this realm’s frayed rules and depravity.” He pushes his hand to her. “You have only to…awaken.”

It frustrates Jollain, infuriates her that she’s so weak to his domination, that she can’t for the life of her shove him off and split these shadows in half. What use is being the Nerevarine if all it boils down to is suffering and being funneled to where others’ whims strike them? How is she supposed to conquer trials without any instruments to wield? 

But in this incensed seed, in the pressure of a thousand generations’ burdens, with her shout, her distress and grievances manifest in true corporeal form. Out from her chest bursts a spark of lightning which transmogrifies into a sword-wielding copper-haired woman in plated gear. She ejects a profound cry of rage from the depth of the ages and carves, sundering the shadows and eviscerates their hold on Jollain. The bosmer gasps and her hands fall to the ground as she tries to catch her breath.

With her gaze lifted, she observes how the magic warrior grasps a two-handed blade, facing Dagoth. With the other hand free, she summons crackling lightning which she unleashes on the residual shadows.  
“You will not touch a hair on her head, demon”, she states in her cutting tone.

Jollain is not alone in her marvel at this development, for Dagoth had not anticipated further incursion into his holdings.  
“What is this? You dare step into the domain of the chosen?! A deity’s bastion?!”

“I’ve faced more than my share of what your type regards as gods. They’re all hoaxes.”

Jollain rises to her feet with effort, now breathing with slight strain.  
“Wait, you’re…Vyraine?”

The other woman, the dunmer with dark grey skin, blood-red eyes and a scar across her right eye, glances over her shoulder.  
“If you seek to confront your fears, now is the time, child.”

As she glimpses Dagoth dwelling in the room, arms staged to bring in a wave of onslaught-driven magic, Jollain tries to gather her determination.  
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, huh?”

As this is, by definition, a dream, she should be capable of just wriggling past its constraints and call for whatever she hankers. Thus, she concentrates hard. In short term, one of her swords forms in her hand, as if materializing by sheer will. She smiles with increased courage and drifts over to her companion.  
Seeing her here up close, it’s…odd. In Azura’s cavern, it was never clear-cut, her body and contours remote and indistinct. Not here – Jollain can relish in it all and Vyraine is an enthralling figure. Both harsh, scarred and battered, while concurrently beautiful, resolute and inexhaustible. 

“Let’s shut this guy down, shall we?”

The dunmer nudges her head in his general direction.  
“You may have the first blow, if you will.”

Jollain smirks, only barely matched by the harder-eyed dunmer. Then, they spring forth in an almost artistic symbiosis, their weapons vitalized by their magical prowess in a grand, brilliant symmetry. The so-called god does not stand a chance. His image is torn and summarily expelled from this nightmare, ripped to pieces by lightning and blade alike. The darkness goes asunder and Jollain senses her mind now relieved of its onus. 

With a deep intake of fresh air, the bosmer turns her relaxed, curved lips at her ancestor standing before her, Vyraine being similarly visibly soothed. She’s an illusion, but also genuine.  
“That was…cathartic.”

“But it did not end the danger. Your true test awaits in the Red Mountain.”

“Yeah, tell me ‘bout it…but at least I figure it’s showing promise now, don’t it?” 

Vyraine shifts her pensive eyes to Jollain, truly taking her appearance in, giving a chance to scope out every facet, all the flaws and inconsistencies.  
“You are not what I expected.”

The bosmer blinks and self-consciously rubs her neck.  
“Uh…is that bad?”

“We shall see, won’t we? Steel yourself, my blood, for your torments are far from over. You have plenty ahead and none of it pleasing.”

Jollain hangs her head and shoulders.  
“Gods…it’s always fucking something, isn’t it? Never asked to be a stupid hero, or a fighter, or even like, doing the right thing or whatever! All I ever wanted was a way to live, to get by. But the world doesn’t give two shits.” She raises her eyes, looking into Vyraine’s with a yearning for unexpressed solidarity.  
“But you’d know that tune well, wouldn’t you?”

The old hero smiles faintly, wistfully.  
“Painfully so. But…don’t despair, Jollain.”

“Why? Because it’s my destiny?”, she asks pettily. “Heard that one before.”

“No. Because I know you possess the bravery and…audacity to go onwards. Strength, perseverance, generosity – it’s all within you and the world is in dire need of those wares. And you have friends, faithful allies to join up with, who would wreck this realm, go beyond the seas for you. That is a treasure you mustn’t overlook. It will be what makes or breaks you. Believe me, I once led a group with the same value for loyalty.”

With this encouragement, Jollain senses her spirit emboldened and nods.  
“Suppose you’ve got a point.” She grows somber and stumbles a nudge, collecting herself for a last few words. She plants a hand on Vyraine’s shoulder.  
“I will finish what you started.”

The dunmer overlaps her own above it, entangling their fingers.  
“As you were meant to.”


End file.
